


Curse of the Dragon: Dance With Fate

by BluSakura



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 133,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluSakura/pseuds/BluSakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Ahiru is a noble with an arranged marriage to Prince Siegfried. Everything she knows (and wants) is changed, however, when she is kidnapped by the Dragon Clan, and drawn into a tale of curses, war, destiny, and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> A rewritten and improved version of my original story, Curse of the Dragon. The original can be found on my FFnet profile.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And his limbs twisted and morphed, his legs lengthening and his silhouette thrashing to and fro. Claws grew from fingertips, clawing at the skin of his torso and arms, his clothes shredding uselessly off his exceedingly growing body. His face, once human, elongated, and horns pushed its way from his skull. A massive, scaly tail grew from his tailbone. Skin was overcome by scales, and in one final arch of his form, spines sprouted from his back, and two, gigantic, leathery wings burst from between his shoulder blades, imposing, throbbing, and almost demonic.
> 
> In moments, there was a monstrous creature before her. It was dark and frightening with the fire in Vineta behind it, born out of nightmares and fantasies. And wide, sharp green eyes against yellow sclera glared deep into the core of her soul.

 

Little Lady Ahiru sat quietly at her vanity in the early morning, her cheek resting on her tiny arms, folded on the white wooden surface. Her small legs dangled and kicked beneath the plush, padded stool, her eyes dancing as she followed the movements of the tiny ballerina as it twirled with the music box's simple tune.

After a moment, the little girl hopped off her seat and scampered almost awkwardly to her window, rifling through the sheer curtains and letting the sun illuminate her room. With a small push, the glass swung open, the sea breeze tousling her fiery hair.

It wasn't all too peculiar of a sight for anyone in the bustling town below. Even as a few birds had fluttered to her in an instant, chirping their greetings to the young miss, it was a usual occurrence.

She smiled brightly, her nose wrinkling and eyes squinting. "Mommy said I'm going to be married to a prince someday!" she said with a giggle, reaching out to stroke the down feathers of her tweeting companions, "I found out yesterday! He's supposed to be my age, but I won't get to meet him till we get married. Which is really sad, 'cause I wanted someone to play with."

At this, her round, wide-eyed expression sobered somewhat. "Pique and Lilie are my best friends, but since they're only servants, they can't be my playmates all the time. I wish I could meet my prince, and then I wouldn't be so lonely!"

"Now, now, marriage isn't just to assuage loneliness, Ahiru."

The little lady blinked, turning around as her birds fluttered away. Her blue eyes brightened as her mother came to sit on the sill with her. Crawling into her mother's lap, she settled into the warm embrace, her back to the woman's chest, and fiddled with the lace of her nightgown. "But if you get married," she mumbled, "then you'll never be alone!"

Her mother, demure and graceful as Ahiru wanted to be someday, took her tiny hands into her own. "True, you'll never be alone, but a marriage needs  _more_  than that, little darling." Bringing one hand to her lips, her mother continued, her voice soft and melodic. "Love, trust, understanding, partnership. With those qualities, two people can come together and have the courage to support and care for one another deeply, no matter what happens, or what comes between them." As if for emphasis, her mother brought her two hands together, clasping them between her own and entwining their fingers together.

Ahiru looked up, staring with wide-eyes at her mother's upside-down face. "Like you and Daddy?"

"Yes, like me and Daddy." Her mother smiled brightly, affectionately brushing Ahiru's red bangs from her freckled face. "And the Prince Siegfried will be raised well, just like you. He will be a noble man and treat you the way you deserve. He will undoubtedly be a wonderful husband and king, with you beside him."

The little girl sighed contentedly, eyes glittering with daydreams of a dashing prince, sweeping her off her feet to become his princess.

It was a good day, Ahiru decided, when her mother helped her dress and ready for the day herself rather than send for one of the maids. As she finally sat with her gown fastened properly and examined the intricate curls of her hair, her mother stepped behind her, smiling at her reflection in the vanity mirror. "Now, there is something I want to give you, little darling. When I was young, my father passed this on to me. And I kept it all throughout my life until now."

Ahiru watched her mother unfasten something from around her neck. It was a red pendant, round and smooth, with a simple, silver chain. Indeed, her mother wore it every day despite owning many other, more elaborate jewels and accessories. The little lady gasped, her wide eyes and openly shocked expression far from ladylike. "Mommy?"

With a smile, her mother reached down to fasten the simple jewel around her small neck, the necklace looking much larger and longer on Ahiru. "Keep it safe, little darling. This is our family heirloom. And now, it is yours to protect. You take good care of it now."

The little lady stared at her reflection in wonder, touching the tips of her fingers to the smoothness of the jewel, the redness glowing against the white backdrop of her gown. She puffed out her chest with pride, a wide, goofy grin spreading across her face. "I'll keep it safe forever!"

* * *

Ten years later, Lady Ahiru clutched her red jewel tightly, gathering strength from the pendant as her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Hedeby, were placed into the ground and buried.

The funeral was well-attended, and it was mind-numbing how many had approached her with condolences. She could scarcely hear them, blankly nodding her appreciation and returning to her quiet mourning. At the very least, she would not have to worry about inheriting the estate and the titles her parents had left behind (her cousin had been selected as her father's heir, and he was an honorable man who took the responsibility readily and humbly). Their last wishes were only that she would marry her betrothed and live happily with him as his queen when he came of age to sit upon the throne.

Ahiru wished, with all of her heart, that they would've been able to attend her wedding.

She tried to politely excuse herself, flinching at her own stuttering and clumsy movements as she stood up and stumbled away from the crowds, her own black gown slipping precariously beneath her shoes. She retreated to the small pond on the grounds of the estate where she felt most at peace and crumpled at the base of her favorite oak tree.

Only when she was alone, only when no one would have been able to witness her true, unladylike self that was so unlike her mother, did she let the tears fall.

Her sobs wracked her small frame, knees brought up to her chest and arms wrapping around herself in a lonely embrace. She blew into her handkerchief noisily. A few birds had perched about her, chirping sadly, but she paid them no mind for the moment.

Her mind scrambled for something—anything—to keep her grounded. Anything else to think of, anything else to feel, other than her loss and despair. She felt as if she'd drown in it if someone didn't save her, and with no one around to truly understand, she had to rely on herself.

So she thought of the letter that arrived the day before. It was a message sent from the royal city of Vineta, the wax seal depicting the pair of swans and the crown that was distinctly the Royal Family's crest. It was from Prince Siegfried, himself, expressing his sincere apologies for being unable to attend her parents' funeral, and offering his condolences. He wrote well, she decided, recalling the delicate and graceful lettering and the eloquent speech within. And she felt warm and comforted from his written words. She supposed if there was anything to look forward to, it was that even if her parents would not see her married, she was due to be wed quite soon.

It was their wish. And rumors had spread of Prince Siegfried's humility, kindness, inner strength, and handsomeness.  _He will be a magnificent king_ , they all decided. And he would be her husband as well.

Lady Ahiru took a deep, shuddering breath, her sobs slowing. Soon, she would no longer be so lonely. With love, trust, understanding, and partnership, surely Prince Siegfried will be the one to give her such courage.

* * *

Weeks later, Lady Ahiru had her belongings packed, some of her precious furniture and clothes already sent ahead of time to Vineta's Grand Chateau. She kissed her cousin goodbye, promising to see him on her wedding day. "You must write to me, anything at all of any happenings in Hedeby!"

The new Duke of Hedeby nodded his agreements, and with that, she boarded the coach. Her driver, Mr. Cobbe, grinned and tipped his hat to her as she went, patting his Pegasus's mane before picking up the reins. Her two giggly best friends and handmaidens, Pique and Lilie, squealed with delight as they followed after her, lifting their skirts and aprons in the process.

The townsfolk had gathered before their estate, whistling and waving gleefully their farewells as the Pegasus's wings gave a mighty beat and flutter, the hooves clop-clopping along the cobblestone as it gained a good speed with which to lift up into the air.

Hedeby itself seemed to bid a fond goodbye to Lady Ahiru, with the scent of salt dancing in the ocean breeze, the early morning sun a gentle caress on her skin, and the town shrinking little by little as they left it behind. The next time she would see it, she would be a married woman. A queen.

"A  _queen_!" Pique's gasp of joy and disbelief pulled Ahiru's gaze away from the disappearing sight of the town of Hedeby. "A queen, milady! Can you possibly believe it? They say that your prince is so dashing, too!"

Lilie could not help but join in on Pique's merriment, clapping her hands together before curling her arms around her mistress's neck. "Ohhhh, milady~! I wonder if you'll ever be  _good enough_  for a man as dashing as Prince Siegfried! Maybe you'll end up embarrassing yourself so much, he will even find it in himself to break off the betrothal! Such a tragedy~!" Lilie's blond curls bounced daintily with her dramatic swaying.

"Ah …?" Ahiru gulped, apprehension rising in her chest. By now, she should've learned to take Lilie's words with a grain of salt, but there was a sense of truth to some of the things she said. Ahiru was not like her mother. How could she ever be a true queen the way she was? She was short, gangly, not at all as elegant as she was supposed to be. "You think so? I hope I don't-"

"But of course, Pique and I will be there for you when your heart is crushed! Perhaps there will still be a room left for you in Hedeby~? I can't think of any man who would want to take you as a wife if all of that happens, however ..."

Pique twirled her pink hair between her fingers in thought, a soft smile playing across her face. "But what a dream if he  _does_  like you, milady! The things they say about him … how charitable and just, how comely and wise … Milady, you are so lucky!"

It was difficult, however, to be so excited when all Ahiru could think about was her inadequacies now that Lilie had planted the seed of doubt. "I-Indeed," she mumbled, trying to sound every bit the part of a soon-to-be-queen, "He is said to be a wonderful man. I hope he'll like-er-approve of me." Ahiru cut off for a moment, gripping the side of the carriage as a sudden gust of wind blew through. She'd forgotten for a moment that they were quite high in the sky, almost touching the scarce clouds above them. Lilie and Pique seemed oddly relaxed for never having been traveling by Pegasus. Then again, they were easily distracted by simpler, sillier things.

A flock of ducks passed by, though, in a v-shaped formation. Seeing them relaxed Ahiru somewhat, and she was able to lean back into the plush seat of the carriage.

Conversation continued with Lilie's dramatic ramblings and tight embraces a constant and Pique's outward daydreaming frequent. At moments of rest and quiet, Ahiru let her head roll to the side, her eyes fluttering closed in a light sleep. For the next few hours, she flitted in and out of slumber, scattered with the yipping chatter of excitable handmaidens.

Ahiru smiled, though. She knew she was just as silly as they were; she did try her best to hide her clumsiness, her stutters, her nervous habits, and her innate ability to find herself in trouble, as those aspects about her were unseemly for a queen. Hopefully, she'd practiced enough self-control to be acceptable to her betrothed.

Mr. Cobbe had called back to them from the driver's bench, joyfully announcing their approach to Vineta. Once again, her hand wandered up to her pendant for strength as she and her handmaidens glanced out the windows.

The capital city of Vineta, the seat of the Royal Family ruling over this country, was breathtaking to behold.

Ahiru was so enraptured that she barely heard the squeals and praises of Pique and Lilie. The Pegasus led the flying carriage in a large circle high above the city, and she was grateful for the extra view. It was much, much larger than Hedeby (understandably, of course), surrounded by a round, pristine stone wall. There were four towers situated in the northernmost, southernmost, easternmost, and westernmost parts of the brick barrier. Just behind the walls, she could see miles and miles of houses and buildings extending outward, with well-paved, cobblestone streets between them. People bustled about with horse-drawn carts of goods and baskets of baked items, meats, and produce. In some areas, fountains sat in the middle of open town squares. A canal snaked its way through some areas of town, emptying out into a riverbank outside of town.

But her attention didn't linger on the outer areas of the city for too long. The Grand Chateau was a jewel to the eye. Sitting upon a small island in the center of an expansive, crystalline lake, the Chateau was a towering castle, with pointed roofs that reached almost as high as they flew, with a large square of gardens and a hedge maze sitting in the southern parts of the grounds. A grand fountain and a gazebo was visible in the center of the labyrinth. She could make out the Royal Family's insignia on the flags that adorned the very tips of the castle-tops, swans and crowns proudly displayed into the air. A grand bridge extended from the large doorways of the palace to the edge of the lake, connecting the royal building to the surrounding town.

This … this place would be her  _home_. She suddenly felt so small, and almost overwhelmed.

As the carriage passed overhead, the villagers paused in their errands, some staring in wonder, others waving their arms in greeting, small children running beneath as if racing with the white, winged creature.

The Pegasus soon touched down onto the bridge (the width of which ended up being much longer than it seemed from high above), and a few guards in full plate marched toward the carriage, armor rattling with the movement. Lilie's blond curls continued to bounce with her endless excitement and Ahiru could feel Pique's hands around her own.

They were assisted out of the carriage, her two handmaidens before her as her own thicker, layered traveling gown would take far more effort to push through the doorway than their simple skirts. She clutched tightly to the knight's hand for balance, trying to mask her struggle not to stumble right there onto the stone walkway. Inwardly panicking, she reached out both hands to grab the guard's, dropping her frilly, lacy fan in the process. Pique hurriedly pushed her pink hair behind her ear and picked up the fan as Ahiru bashfully righted herself. Lilie merely giggled at the sight.

She began to fan herself, trying to cover her reddened cheeks after retrieving the lacy item from Pique. Lady Ahiru could not be seen behaving this way to Prince Siegfried. Especially on their first meeting. She turned to curtsy and smile appreciatively at Mr. Cobbe, who returned her attentions with a smile and a tip of his hat. With a flick of his wrist and the reins, the Pegasus set off again, perhaps to the nearby stables.

It was now a little past midday. They'd made good time.

The ladies were escorted to the towering, yet inviting, dark wooden doors. Indeed, from this point of view, the Chateau looked even more grand, and she had to squint into the sunlight to see the lofty tops of the castle.

The doors inched open to them, pushed outward from within by two guards. Between them, a dignified man with greying hair and a friendly visage approached. He was well-dressed in his waistcoat and breeches. The man greeted the ladies, particularly Ahiru, with a smile, his crows feet crinkling with a sincerity that won her over immediately. He bowed deeply and respectfully, and the ladies curtsied in return. "Welcome to Vineta, Lady Ahiru. My name is Karon, attendant and advisor to His Royal Highness Prince Siegfried." Karon had stated this with an underlying pride—almost fatherly in nature. Ahiru decided that she already liked him. "I trust the trip went smoothly for you?"

"Yes, it was fine! It's nice to meet you, Karon!" she gleefully replied, before remembering her manners and restrained her wide grin into a demure smile, "Ah … th-that is, it's a pleasure!"

If Karon had taken any notice of her slight outburst, he made no sign of it. She did hear Pique and Lilie tittering behind her, however. Her face burned and she once again made to conceal her embarrassment with her fan, attempting to look modest rather than flustered. Thankfully, Karon had turned slightly, gesturing to the doorway with a motion of his open arm. "Come, come, let us get you settled!"

Ahiru carefully shifted her skirts as she followed Karon into the Chateau, trying not to let her jaw drop when they stepped into the entrance hall. The expanse was immense, with high ceilings, many windows, and white, marble flooring allowing much natural light to pour into the room. At the very top hung a chandelier, glittering and reflecting the sunlight from each of the many crystals adorning it. When she let her gaze lower, she took in a set of ornate double-doors chiseled with moldings of swans and roses at the top of a short staircase. Two other staircases connected to it in the center, bridging upwards to the higher floors from the sides. And all around her were other passageways and archways, likely corridors that connected the entrance hall to the many wings and towers of the estate.

It was beautiful, but once more, Ahiru felt inadequate, standing there and staring as if she was lost.

She was startled out of her stupor when a woman approached from one of the doorways to her right. With luxurious, long brown hair, grey-blue eyes, colored lips, and a womanly figure, Ahiru had to look twice to notice her rather simple array of skirts and the apron tied around her thin waist. She was a beautiful woman, but certainly a servant. The woman was flanked by two other ladies in similar, but slightly more plain, clothes.

Lady Ahiru blushed when the woman smiled, feeling all the more insignificant in this grand room and faced with a sight such as she. Karon stepped forward with a nod, introducing her politely. "Milady, allow me to introduce our head housemaid and housekeeper, Miss Raetsel."

After polite curtsies were exchanged, Raetsel winked good-naturedly, and Ahiru relaxed at the familiarity of the gesture. "Without me, surely this place would fall into disarray!" She teasingly leaned in, beckoning Ahiru, Pique, and a constantly tittering Lilie to come closer. "Remember this well, ladies: men are hopeless without us. Karon, the knights, our servant boys, and even your king," she paused to give a significant glance to Ahiru, "will always be at your call, but if you want something done and done  _right_ , come see me or any of my girls." The maids beside Raetsel smiled and nodded their agreement, and Karon gave a lighthearted roll of his eyes, his own grin never wavering.

And it was at that moment when another set of doors to her left swung open. A half-dozen or so attendants entered the main hall, surrounding a young man in deep blue and white.

He was Prince Siegfried. He had to be.

Though his expression was weary as they bombarded him with quills and scrolls, rambling about 'Rungholt' and 'disagreements', the slight furrow of his brow and anxious downward turn of his lips did nothing to mar his elegant, comely features. Ahiru's lips parted as her cheeks flooded with heat. She blushed, her gaze taking in his gentle countenance. The prince's eyes were a warm, golden amber, his skin fair and pure, and his hair the color of white pearl. As sweet as his features were, however, there was a simmering fire beneath the pools of his eyes, a strength hidden there as he listened carefully to his attendants and council members. Ahiru hardly knew what they were speaking of, but the prince, with his dignified poise and the golden crown atop his charmingly-mussed hair, seemed determined to achieve something.

Ahiru had never met anyone so handsome. Her heart soared in her chest and her hands clasped nervously around her fan. Behind her, she could hear the soft gasps of her handmaidens, even Lilie driven to speechlessness, as he was so much more than the rumors had made him out to be.

As the group stepped further into the room, Raetsel cleared her throat and Karon straightened. Prince Siegfried lifted his gaze from one of the many documents held out before him, his eyes almost immediately locking with her fiery red hair and clear, blue eyes.

Her breath hitched in her throat and her cheeks flooded with heat once more. This was her betrothed. She had been anticipating their union since childhood. She knew this day would come, and she'd heard the stories of his handsome face, sweet nature, and wisdom. Yet, there at that moment, every dream and every wish came true. Her prince was before her, and so was her future.

All of the preparation, the mental practice of keeping herself in line … how could she keep that up, when he was so wonderful, and she was so inadequate? Ahiru fought the urge to shrink away from his gaze. Would he approve? Or would Lilie's words in the carriage prove true?

Prince Siegfried lifted a hand sharply, silencing the rambling banter of his surrounding attendants with a single gesture. Even as he did so, his eyes never left her own. He seemed to be taking her in with an expression of wonder, and she had to force herself to maintain the eye contact. When his lips suddenly turned up into a kindly smile, his eyes warm and gentle, Ahiru almost melted. Indeed, he was handsome when focused, but his smile was all but heavenly.

"... Milady, His Highness, Prince Siegfried of Vineta, future King of our country, Goldkrone." Karon smiled fondly, stepping aside as the prince moved forward and away from the staring crowd of council members. "Your Highness, might I present Lady Ahiru of Hedeby."

It occurred to her that she was still staring, and at Pique's sharp "psst!" and Lilie's small cackle, Ahiru almost jumped right out of her skin. She scrambled to grip the sides of her gown and dip into a clumsy curtsy, bowing her head to let her bangs cover her shame. However, just as she was about to speak up, to introduce herself properly and apologize for her manner, she felt a warm hand reach for her own, urging her to straighten and face him.

His touch was so tender.

Ahiru shyly lifted her gaze, and was met with such sweetness in his eyes, a small, fond smile still on his face. "A-Ah … Your Highness …"

"Milady," he uttered sweetly, slightly bowing his head, "It's so good to finally meet you. I must confess, I've been looking forward to your arrival." A small, endearing blush reached his cheeks. Ahiru giggled in response, butterflies bursting in her belly. It was an odd sort of comfort, knowing she wasn't the only one so affected by their meeting. She straightened her posture, trying to appear poised rather than reveal the giddiness she fought to hide. He continued on, his smile faltering with his next words. "Again, I do apologize for not being able to attend your parents' funeral. I regret that I've had my hands full with some … foreign relations." At this, his council members behind him shifted uncomfortably. "I hope you'll forgive me."

"No, there's nothing to forgive, Your Highness!" she protested in earnest, "I completely understand! You must be very busy! And it seems like it's serious, so ..." She hoped she didn't sound as ignorant as she truly was. Ahiru was guilty of not making a larger effort to understand the plights of the country as a whole, distracted as she was with the happiness of those in Hedeby alone.

"Nonsense. I must make it up to you." His hand tightened around hers.

One of the council members behind him stepped forward with a sharp clearing of his throat. "Your Highness, perhaps you may greet the lady properly after we discuss-"

Prince Siegfried turned sharply to him, casually sweeping his white cape out of his way. "Lady Ahiru is your future queen. Discussions can wait." His hand squeezed hers a bit, his thumb running across her knuckles. She blushed heavily, and she hoped her hand wasn't shaking in his. "Welcoming her is far more important, don't you agree? You're all dismissed for the day." He turned away from them as they bowed obediently to the two before shuffling off in different directions. Without even blinking an eye, the prince turned back to her. "You should get settled! The trip must've been taxing for you, milady. Are you weary at all?"

Ahiru shook her head, trying not to bounce right out of her slippers with how  _not weary_  she was. She was very much the opposite now, the simultaneous excitement and anxiety of finally meeting her future husband keeping her very much awake. But it would not do to act so fidgety before him. He was the picture of perfection, and she wanted so badly to be worthy of being his queen. "No, I'm alright! Really! Qu-Quite energetic, actually."

He paused for a moment, before nodding with a lighthearted and almost playful glint in his eye. When he turned to the party still present behind her, Ahiru remembered that they were all just standing there, likely staring. She'd forgotten they were there at all. "Miss Raetsel, please have your maids show Lady Ahiru's personal handmaidens to our servants' quarters. They are to continue to maintain their duties to her as she sees fit." Raetsel curtsied first, and the servants had repeated the gesture before leading Pique and Lilie away—though, not before they were able to throw significant, giddy glances toward their mistress. "Karon, see to it that we have a swan-drawn carriage ready within the hour! Lady Ahiru deserves a special tour of Vineta." Ahiru's smile widened at the thought of exploring the city of her new home, and Prince Siegfried seemed pleased with her reaction.

"Of course, Your Highness. And how many guards shall I send with her?"

"None. I will be joining her, personally."

Karon blinked, seemingly surprised by his prince's words. Then his grin returned, his crows feet crinkling with something akin to secret joy. This must've meant something good, Ahiru assumed. She couldn't help but feel flattered. That, and having time to be with just Prince Siegfried, together and alone for the first time, had her squealing inside. "But of course, Your Highness."

The prince turned to Raetsel again. "Show Lady Ahiru to her prepared room. Let her freshen up properly." With Raetsel's second curtsy, he once more put his attention upon Ahiru. "I hope you'll find everything to your liking, milady. Take your time, and I will join you before we set out." His golden eyes softened as he brought her hand to his lips in a tender kiss, his skin warm and soft on her own. She had to step back with how flustered she became, almost losing balance at his meaningful gaze.

* * *

Lady Ahiru flapped her lacy fan before her, trying to shuffle carefully in her ornate slippers and layers upon layers of ruffle and lace. She tried to move down the stairs without looking as if she would topple over with every step.

A bath had done her good; the travel gown she wore was thick and stuffy, and the room Raetsel had led her to was breathtaking, with a connecting door that led into a lavish washroom. The beautiful housekeeper had provided her with lovely-smelling salts and perfumes, all of which reminded her of roses and springtime—and by extension, of Prince Siegfried.

While Ahiru bathed, breathing deeply and taking in the golden moldings on the walls and doors and the silky drapes by the windows, Raetsel laid out a robe and joked, "You so admire these rooms. Though, you'll not be here for long. Soon, you'll be wed and you'll be sharing with Prince Siegfried, and his chambers are  _exceptional_." Ahiru's cheeks turned a bright red and she slowly sunk down, submerging the bottom half of her face beneath the warm, bubbly water.

She hadn't thought of that. Being married to a man like Prince Siegfried … She truly was in a fairytale. It was the happy ending of every happy story her mother had read to her as a child. And it was the happy ending her parents wished for her before their deaths.

As soon as Ahiru had a moment to herself, drying off in the spacious main room while Raetsel went out to send for a gown fit for a perfect outing, her composure and careful discipline crumpled. Her pent-up emotions exploded now that she was alone. She bound about the bedroom with flailing arms, red hair flying free, swinging herself gleefully around the canopy poles of the large bed. She rolled across the comforter and squealed into the plush pillows around her, looking ridiculous with her undone curls and in nothing but a white towel.

Thank goodness Raetsel arrived when Ahiru had already composed herself and sat demurely on the bed, brushing her hair. It would've been quite unseemly had she been seen.

Soon enough, she was ready for a day out on the town, dressed in layers of blue and white skirts, obviously aimed to match Prince Siegfried's deep blue, white, and gold feathered tunic and cape. Though she'd been offered beautiful jewelry, she still chose, above all, the round red pendant that had been in her family for generations. Ahiru daydreamed for a moment as she clung to the railing of the stairs to keep from falling in this dress—someday, she would've liked to gift this pendant to her child. Her child with Prince Siegfried. It was a thought that would make any girl her age in the kingdom fall into a silly heap on the floor.

Prince Siegfried was waiting for her with a smile, standing next to the carriage with Karon. A driver was already perched on his seat with two, majestic swans at the ends of the reins. She brought her fan back to her face to hide her glowing cheeks as her prince stepped forward and took her hand. He brought it to his lips once more, before kindly helping her into the carriage. He nodded to Karon, who joined the driver in the front, before stepping in after her. As the door shut and he sat in the seat in front of her, it started to set in that they were alone now.

The swans led the carriage away from the Grand Chateau, keeping at a shallow flight just a few feet above the ground so the wheels still rolled along the stone of the lengthy bridge that connected the palace to the village. Despite the fact that the prince was a mere few feet away, she couldn't stop herself from staring wondrously out the window at the large lake, the late afternoon sun reflecting and dancing off the crystal waters.

"Wow …!"

"... Is it to your liking, milady?"

"Oh!" Ahiru turned back to him, righting her posture, her face flushed as she folded her hands on her lap. "O-Of course! I mean, yes, it's beautiful, Your Highness."

"Good," he said, his own cheeks reddening. He seemed to gaze at her for a long moment before he spoke again. "I'd hoped so. This will be yours soon. When we marry, that is." Her heart leaped in her chest and she fought the urge to grin stupidly. Instead, she gave him a tiny smile. If she could dare say so, he seemed rather happy with her reaction. Raetsel told her he was "charmed by her," though she wouldn't really know what that was like, if she was the one to make it so, or if Raetsel was even right about it. "And, please, won't you call me Mytho?"

Ahiru blinked in surprise, tilting her head to the side. "Mytho?"

"Yes. It's a nickname, if you will. It's a personal preference on my part." He reached forward, taking her hands between his own and smiled earnestly. "I will be king within two months time, but I will likewise be your husband. I … well, I find it only fitting. I hope I'm not too forward."

Too forward? No young woman would ever deem him too forward with anything. She felt so unworthy, so small, and yet he regarded her with such kindness and even small affections when they'd met not two hours ago. And how she desperately fought the urge to throw herself into his arms and hug him tightly. That would not be queenly at all. Instead, she bit her lip and nodded. "Mytho … I would be honored. But please call me Ahiru then?"

Prince Siegfried seemed oddly relieved, and he relaxed somewhat (though she hardly knew why he would ever feel self-conscious in front of  _her!_ ). "Ahiru," he repeated, fondly testing it on his tongue, "I've always marveled at such a unique name. It derives from Old Kinkan, doesn't it? The ancient language?"

"That's what Mom—Mother said, yes."

He smiled, his teeth showing this time. "Do you know what it means? I'm afraid I have not paid much attention to the old languages during my tutor's sessions growing up."

Ahiru let herself release a ladylike giggle at this small revelation. So even Prince Siegfried—Mytho—was guilty of being imperfect and human. That only endeared him to her even more. "I actually don't know. I feel ..."  _Stupid_. "... s-silly, not having the common sense to ask my parents while they were still alive."

"That's alright." He leaned back in his seat, once more taking her in appreciatively. He didn't bother to hide the open emotion behind his eyes. She wondered if he could likewise see her own feelings behind hers. "The name is sweet, and one of a kind. It suits you."

To say the very least, Ahiru hadn't been this happy since the death of her parents.

* * *

The tour was a breathtaking affair.

Mytho was the perfect host to his future wife and proved to be appropriately knowledgeable about Vineta as a whole. They'd passed the gated academy, where Mytho particularly praised the fine arts that derived from the school. There was a large square with a lovely fountain in the center of a market district, people excitedly buying their goods and exchanging greetings even this late in the day.

Many had even approached the carriage, children reaching out to gently pet the oddly calm swans, villagers waving and calling out to their prince with fond familiarity. Mytho knew some of them by name; it warmed her heart to see him call so casually to them. Indeed, his kindness was not simply a rumor. His people loved him.

And they seemed enthusiastic to meet their future queen. Some even caught up with the slow-moving carriage, greeting her with grins. One young lady had reached into the window to gift Ahiru with a bouquet of white roses—again, she was reminded of Mytho. She brought the roses to her nose to inhale the clean, spring aroma, her eyes meeting his as she did.

He looked at her as if she was so precious. She didn't deserve any of this. It was a dream. It was magical.

"Would you like to stretch your legs?" he asked, glancing outside, "You'll be able to explore a bit more if you stay safe and close. I'm sure the people would love to meet you on a more personal level."

Ahiru, secretly thrilling at the idea of  _truly_  exploring rather than just watching things go by, brightened at his suggestion. "Really?! Ah … that is, yes, I'd like that."

Mytho leaned out the window, calling out to Karon out of earshot. The carriage pulled up next to a restaurant where a tall, plump lady served many a customer inside and on the outside patio as well. She and the patrons greeted them warmly as they stepped out of the carriage and onto the cobblestone ground. Like a true prince, Mytho offered his arm to Ahiru. She gratefully accepted, and they began to take their stroll, the driver and Karon an appropriate distance behind.

Everyone seemed so happy. Many approached, dancing around the two and giggling. "Is she our new queen?" they would ask. "Oh, she is quite pretty!" they would exclaim. "Welcome to Vineta, milady!" they would greet. And Mytho seemed so proud of Vineta and its people. They weaved between crowds, but she never once felt in danger as she was surrounded by smiles, and Mytho's arm felt as secure as a castle fortress.

The only time she felt off-balance or ill at ease was when she passed by one man in particular. It hardly mattered—it was a mere second, maybe two, when their eyes met. The only reason why she'd noticed at all was because he was on the taller side, and tanned. It was a flash of sharp, green eyes, piercing and almost  _accusing_  …

She'd turned for a second glance, a chill running up her spine. Yet, all she saw were the smiles she'd seen all day. The man had vanished.

"Ahiru?" Mytho beckoned to her, his arm tightening around her, "Is something wrong?"

"... No, I'm fine! Probably just my imagination!"

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, she decided not to worry over it. It truly was probably just a shadow at the corner of her eye. And how could she think of anything else when she had such wonderful company? "This is all so wonderful, Mytho ..." Idly, she let her head rest against his shoulder as they walked over a small footbridge that connected the gap between one side of Vineta and the next, a small canal beneath them where some young ones had taken to boating. The skies were a purple-pink hue, the breeze tousling their hair, the bridge they stood upon the perfect place to witness it all. Though their driver, the carriage, and Karon were not far, it was still … utterly romantic.

Ahiru was so happy, she thought she would cry. She refused to, of course, since queens did not do such things, but this day had been so surreal and utterly perfect.

As Mytho's arm encircled her, she felt him turn to face her fully. His other hand reached up to tilt her chin up, and one moment later she was staring up into amber pools of pure adoration. Ahiru could hardly breathe. "... Forgive me," he began softly, "if I am too forward, Ahiru. But please … let me say, you are  _lovely_. And kind. I know, we've merely met hours ago, but I know that you are more wonderful than I could ever have dreamed. The people love you, and there's a sweetness to you that I cannot seem to pull away from."

Surely,  _surely_  he must've been talking about himself. Why was she not telling him the same things? Why did she not shower him with praises as he deserved? She was rendered speechless. That a man such as Prince Siegfried, the future king, her Mytho, could find her at all as incredible as he thought her to be, was unbelievable.

She forced herself to say something. "I … you should know, Mytho, that I don't mind if you're too forward!" Ahiru winced at the way her voice cracked and wavered with emotion, and she fought for composure as she continued. "Please let me be forward, too! You're wonderful! Everyone has always said so, but you are so much more than I could ever deserve."

His cheeks burned a bright red despite his smile, and Ahiru knew she was falling in love.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, "I want to spend the entire day with you! I want to know you, learn your likes and dislikes, show you the entire castle … perhaps a picnic in the gardens? Please say yes, Ahiru."

A giddy smile spread across her face and she clung to him tightly. "... Yes. Oh, yes please."

His eyes were joyous and his smile contagious. "Arranged or not … I cannot wait to marry you, Ahiru." He brought her close, their noses touched, her heart pounded in her chest and she let her eyes flutter closed.

" _It's gone up! It's ablaze! Run! Run!_ "

" _No, no, my baby! She's in there!_ "

The arms around her fell and her eyes snapped open, her gaze immediately shifting left to right and searching for the source of the scream. Within the blink of an eye, Mytho had stepped away from her, his sword, emblazoned with two swans and a golden crown on the hilt and handle, already removed from its sheath within Karon's grasp. Just moments ago, his expression had been calm, just having found his true beloved. But at the cries of a woman—a villager of his own home, Vineta—calling for aid, he acted quickly. Indeed, the stories were true. Mytho would not hesitate to jump into danger for others, even if he was a prince and had guards to do such things for him.

The screams in the distance attracted their attention. A hot, fiery glow arose from behind one of the nearby houses and dark smoke wafted up into the starry sky.

" _Clear the area! Call the guards!_ "

" _No, no, let me go, she's still in there!_ "

Mytho brandished his sword and took her hand, leaving a kiss to the back of it. "Wait for me, my Ahiru," he swore, releasing her and already crossing the bridge to follow the chaos. "Karon, Mister Hubert, take her back to the Chateau and send for my guards! Bring water!"

"Is it—Your Highness, is it Rungholt's—?!" Karon trailed off, already beginning to take action and calm the frazzled swans.

"That hardly matters now! We fix it first! Do as I say, keep her safe, bring my guards and water!" Soon, Mytho disappeared toward the danger. Ahiru stared after him in dismay, and now that the sun had sunk behind the hills, it was too dark to see too far off, even with the fire raging in the distance.

"Come, milady!"

She felt two pairs of hands firmly, but harmlessly, urge her back toward the carriage, but she instinctively resisted. "But … but Mytho! I want to wait for him!"

Karon shook his head. "There is no reaching him! He will not stop until the danger is over. Believe me, I've tried stopping him before!" He continued to lead her, this time with more urgency, toward the carriage. Mr. Hubert had already readied himself on the seat up front. "We can only do as he says! I assure you that he—!"

Suddenly, Karon's insistent arms fell away from her, and she heard something collapse onto the bridge behind her. With Mr. Hubert's sudden gasp and panicked, "You, get away from her!", she whirled around, instinctively searching for the source of Mr. Hubert's terror.

She knew she could hear Mr. Hubert struggling to stumble off of his seat with fluttering and screeching swans around him. But as she stared down at Karon's unconscious form on the ground, a wave of dread washed down upon her. Her gaze lifted. In the darkness, she could only make out a tall silhouette, framed by the red and orange glow of fire behind the shadow. She reached up to her neck to grip her pendant. For strength.

Before Ahiru could scream, bruising, tight arms clamped around her tiny frame, and she and whoever it was who gripped her so painfully were  _flung_  over the edge of the bridge and into the canal beneath.

It was frigid and numbingly cold. Her scream finally found its way from her lungs only to meet with the unforgiving suffocation of water. She couldn't move, her arms pinned to her body and legs rendered useless. Though she tried to writhe and kick against the hold, it was steadfast and solid, and her chest was burning with an aching need for air. Ahiru began to give in, water starting to slip into her lungs and her head growing hazy with horror, regret, and thoughts of Mytho.

This was supposed to be her dream come true …

Just when the calm darkness began to claim her, Ahiru felt whoever gripped her thrust her forward roughly onto something cold, but earthy and oddly prickly. The force with which she hit the grass at the edge of the canal sent the water in her lungs rushing forward, and she coughed it out, inhaling the sweet air greedily when she caught her breath. Her head was swimming, and her sight was blurry, but her mind was still moving a mile a minute. She squinted as she continued to cough out the water. No one seemed to be around, and there were no buildings. The hazy, red glow of fire was a great distance away, behind walls.

… Whoever had taken her, had brought her all the way out to the riverbank where the canal left the city completely.

As soon as the water had emptied out into the grass, she slumped forward, feeling weak and somehow, extremely heavy. She couldn't move her legs. A breeze went by, and she shivered violently. She wanted to get up, scream and kick at whoever dared to grab her like that, and march her way back to Vineta to have this shadow arrested, but she just … needed a moment.

"... This is going to be a damn problem."

Her eyes snapped open at the deep, smooth voice. She tried to lift herself up on her weak, bruised arms to give him a piece of her mind, but she suddenly felt a quick  _yank_ around her waist, and a sharp  _ripping_  sound echoed into the quiet of the plains.

She felt lighter, and her legs could move about freely. Ahiru took a moment to glance down at herself.

Her bloomers were showing. And soaking wet.

Ahiru's jaw dropped, her gaze lifting up just in time to see the tall shadow holding the bundled lump of drenched fabric that used to be her lacy and ruffled skirts, all ripped down the middle.

Ahiru didn't know whether to scream, cry, run, or try to attack him. "Y-You—how dare you?! I—take me back this instant!" She stumbled up to her feet, shamefully trying to cover herself up at the same time. "Take me back to Vineta! Are you responsible for the fire?! You'll be imprisoned, you know! Prince Siegfried will—!" She felt silly and embarrassed and angry. This was unsightly! If anyone saw her like this, they would ridicule the new queen, and even worse, ridicule the king for loving her! "Just … give those  _back_  to me—oof!" She found herself stumbling back when the bundle of wet cloth collided with her, her bottom landing painfully onto the grass once more.

"You want two tons of useless, wet frill, then fine. But I'm not going to be the one carrying it."

Whoever it was sounded aggravated, and Ahiru was incensed further. She pushed the fabric off of her and, no longer caring that she was wearing nothing but the bodice of her gown and her bloomers, she marched up to her assailant, taking in the appearance of a man as awful as this one.

Though, he did not physically seem the type to kidnap. And she vaguely recognized him.

The glow from the fire had increased, giving her an easier time to inspect him, though she couldn't get the details. Tanned skin, yes, and dark hair that seemed to shimmer a deep green under the orange-ish light in the town. He was wearing old, ratty clothes. A blue shirt riddled with stitches and rips, and ripped black pants. And those green, piercing eyes had her frozen for a long moment. They glared at her as if  _she_ was the one who did something wrong.

… He had no right to stare at her like that! Especially when  _he_  was the criminal!

For some reason, her own outrage—over being bruised and almost drowned, over her ruined moment with her prince, over being almost naked and soaking wet in the middle of nowhere, over this horrible man—manifested in the most unladylike way possible.

She reached up and tried to hit him.

Why she was so surprised he'd caught it easily in his quick grip, she had no idea. She tried to yank her arm away from his hold, but he was as solid as he was when he held her in the canal. Soon, she was struggling with her other hand, trying to pry his fingers from her wrist.

The man only jerked her forward, closer to him.

"A-Ah?!" Her face heated and she doubled her efforts to pull away, all too aware of her state of dress and his proximity. But as his gaze stared her down, she had trouble putting words together in her mind. He seemed to inspect her, from the freckles dusting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, to the shape of her jaw and the color of her eyes. And she could not for the life of her figure out why.

When his stare dropped down to the area near her chest, she almost screamed at him to look away immediately. And when he reached up toward her breasts with his free hand, she  _did._ "S-Stop, stop this  _now_!"

But he'd surprised her. All he did was pluck the red jewel that still hung around her neck and between her breasts between his fingertips, his expression unreadable as he studied her pendant. "Shut up, you. Give me a second."

… Was he a thief? A kidnapper? Just some criminal who wanted to harass the new queen?

Well, whoever he was, it hardly mattered. "Y-You can't have it! It belongs to my family!"

Something glimmered in his green eyes then, and they snapped up to meet Ahiru's angry blues. "... Good to know."

With that, he shoved her away from him, letting her fall onto the grass for the third time. She tried to stand again, glaring coldly with indignation. "You'll be arrested! You can't treat me like this! Do you know who I am?!" She puffed out her chest, trying to show him who he was messing with. She was a queen, and she needed to learn to behave that way to criminals like this man!

He smirked in the darkness, green eyes glinting again. "... Yeah, guess I do."

It was then, that his muscles began to twitch, his body began to hunch over, and low growls erupted from his throat, a stark contrast from the fluid words he spat at her before.

She stepped back.

The man's body began to quiver, spasms wracking his form as he fought to remain standing. "A-Are you … okay?" she asked timidly, for even if he was a scoundrel and a lawbreaker, he seemed to be in such pain, and so suddenly. She didn't know if she felt more concerned or frightened.

But as the question escaped her lips, he threw his head back, his green eyes wild and his teeth lengthening to sharp tips. He released a bellowing roar so chilling and so horrific that she stumbled back and scrambled down into the grass again. And his limbs twisted and morphed, his legs lengthening and his silhouette thrashing to and fro. Claws grew from fingertips, clawing at the skin of his torso and arms, his clothes shredding uselessly off his exceedingly growing body. His face, once human, elongated, and horns pushed its way from his skull. A massive, scaly tail grew from his tailbone. Skin was overcome by scales, and in one final arch of his form, spines sprouted from his back, and two, gigantic, leathery wings burst from between his shoulder blades, imposing, throbbing, and almost demonic.

In moments, there was a monstrous creature before her. It was dark and frightening with the fire in Vineta behind it, born out of nightmares and fantasies. And wide, sharp green eyes against yellow sclera glared deep into the core of her soul.

Ahiru was stupefied. Driven to absolute shock.

Its claws encircled her form, hefting her up and away from the ground with a great beat of its black wings. By the time she gathered her wits enough to scream, the dragon with scales the color of obsidian had carried Ahiru far from Vineta, the black smoke still rising to the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Docktor Locktor


	2. Etude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She remembered only fragments and shades at first. The red glow of flames, the sharp frigidness of water, fierce green eyes, black scales, a monstrous form, and the cold, hard grip of terrifying claws ensnaring her and lifting her up, up, up—before it all went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Sorry about the delays. With work and such, I've been exceptionally busy. However, I will be able to update more frequently now! Thanks again for all of the patience, and from the bottom of my heart, I appreciate every single hit, comment, favorite, alert, and kudos. You're all the best, and I can't thank you enough for sticking with this story for so long.

The fire itself had been a simple fix. Though the cause was unknown, the knights had acted quickly, and Prince Siegfried had personally seen to it that no one had been caught in the flames. The building was a small bakery, and he made certain that the owner and his family were to be reimbursed and given aid until it could be rebuilt. Ultimately, there was no lasting or devastating damage; nothing had been stolen and no one was hurt. At first, it seemed to be nothing but an accident.  
  
However, as the last of the flames died down and a few of his guards searched the immediate area for signs of the source, the clanking of steel armor and the sound of panicked cries reached the prince’s ears.  
  
He immediately knew that something had gone horribly wrong when Mr. Hubert rushed forward, flustered and frazzled, with Karon’s motionless form slumped over the back of one of the large swans. Several of his knights flanked the two of them, approaching him with desperate urgency. “She’s gone!” Mr. Hubert cried, the middle-aged man shaking his head and dropping to his knees before his prince, “She’s been taken! _Lady Ahiru has been taken_!”

* * *

 

 Prince Siegfried ignored the ceaseless ramblings of his advisers. He rubbed his temples, pacing back and forth in front of his throne.  
He had looked away for just a moment. She had been there, beautiful and tangible, and he turned from her just once. Never had he dared to _regret_ tending to the needs and protection of his own people, but his fiancee's sudden disappearance—her sudden _abduction—_ had him selfishly wishing he'd acted differently.  
  
His pacing was endless, his steps echoing through the vast throne room. The usual, dignified air of the chamber, with it's high, arching ceilings, tall windows, and stained glass images of swans and roses, was disrupted by the babbling of frantic royal subjects. Maids rushed this way and that, catering to the overdramatic needs of his advisors. Scrolls were shuffled and quills were scratching. Armor clanked and soldiers waited nearby at a loss. Pique and Lilie curled up together in Raetsel's arms, their emotions greatly varying between absolute worry and bizarre excitement. Arguments and confusion bounced off the marble walls.  
  
All the while, the prince deliberated to himself, expression stony and bleak. Mr. Hubert's grim gaze followed his every step. When Prince Siegfried finally spoke from behind clenched teeth, it was audible even over the thrum of noise around them. “A tall man with green eyes. That is all you remember? Are you certain?”  
  
“Yes,” came Mr. Hubert's somber reply, “He was fast. Inhuman! He simply threw himself and the Lady Ahiru into the canal before I could even react--!” The man stifled a sob, wringing his hat between his white knuckles. “I cannot apologize enough, Your Highness.”  
  
The prince's mind worked quickly despite the anxiety rising up from his chest. “They should've emerged downstream then. General Lysander!”  
  
The armored general, in full plate and all regalia, stepped forward with his helmet tucked under his arm. Lysander had always been a gruff-looking man, but the usual sternness to his features had deepened with worry, his brow wrinkling. “Aye, Your Highness. My men will be back soon from their investigation of the canal. They are leaving no stone unturned!”  
  
“See to it, then,” the prince replied, pausing in his incessant pacing to stand beside his throne, his back to the crowd of subjects and his hand tightly gripping the armrest. He lowered his head, eyes clenching shut as he willed himself to remain steady. “Have we no other leads?”  
  
There was a pause—a moment of hesitance from all of his subjects—and that was enough for the prince to break his carefully constructed wall of composure. “Have we no other _leads?_ ” he repeated, sharply glancing over one shoulder, eyes narrowing.  
  
“No, and we've ruled out Rungholt's possible involvement,” said Mr. Hubert, his tone heavy.  
  
Indeed, Prince Siegfried knew that Rungholt couldn't have had a hand in this. The Runholtan Prince was a spoiled fool, but certainly not despicable or underhanded—or so he'd hoped. While it was far too early to dismiss the possibility entirely, it simply wasn't likely, especially considering that Rungholt wanted something from his kingdom. They wouldn't dare abduct Prince Siegfried's betrothed at a time of such stressful “negotiations.”  
  
The thought of it put a sour taste in Prince Siegfried's mouth. Miles of Vinetian fertile lands in exchange for Rungholtan slaves? Preposterous. But he couldn't think about politics now.  
  
“I see. And how does Karon fare?” The prince remained where he was, unwilling to turn around and face his subjects again without knowing the status of his closest friend, caregiver, and advisor. Seeing the man who attended to him ever since he could remember lying unconscious and helpless across a swan's back moments before hearing that his fiancee had been taken had been far too much as it was.  
  
There was a brief pause before Mr. Hubert spoke—just enough of one to weigh down upon Prince Siegfried's heart. “He is in the infirmary. He should be recovering soon, but he received a blow to the head and he will need time.”  
  
Prince Siegfried nodded, relief washing over him. At least there was that. It did little to salve the immense worry for his fiancee, but knowing Karon would live kept him together.  
  
So strange, he thought, that he could be so happy one moment, and then the next everything would fall apart. He had always known that Lady Ahiru was to be his one day, and he had heard a great many things about her kindness and sweetness. But to be by her side, to hold her and speak with her, to see her so joyful and taking pride in his kingdom as he did, made his heart swell and glow in his chest.  
  
She was suddenly ripped away from him, and his heart was dangerously close to shattering into tiny, little shards. Could it be that, after only a single afternoon, he had already--?  
  
“Your Highness!”  
  
The prince whirled around when General Lysander called to him. His breath hitched in his throat when the general presented to him a bundle of soaked ruffles and lace. The Lady Ahiru's skirts.  
  
Prince Siegfried's blood ran cold.  
  
General Lysander stared apologetically at his prince. “My men found these outside of the city walls, at the edge of the canal. And … well, we may have a lead.”  
  
He stepped aside with a loud clank of his armor, and a little girl was behind him, smudged with ash and tears. Prince Siegfried attempted to quell any outward show of his inner panic and despair to approach the child, kneeling down to look her in the eye. “Little one,” he said, taking one tiny dirt-stained hand into his own, shaking fingers, his voice gentle even as his eyes swam with anguish, “can you help us find Lady Ahiru? Do you know what happened to her?”  
  
The little girl sniffed and nodded, her eyes wide.  
  
The prince spoke again, urging her to continue with his gaze and his tightening grip and hoping he would not reveal his impatience and frighten her. “Did you see the tall man and where he might've taken her?”  
  
She blinked, sniffling. “N-No tall man. She wasn't taken b-by a man.”  
  
“... She wasn't?”  
  
The little girl shook her head, her curls bouncing and her lip trembling. “It … it was a monster.”

* * *

 

Ahiru awoke with a painful start—the high winds whipped unrelentingly upon her, and she could scarcely take a deep enough breath to compose herself in the thin air.  
  
She remembered only fragments and shades at first. The red glow of flames, the sharp frigidness of water, fierce green eyes, black scales, a monstrous form, and the cold, hard grip of terrifying claws ensnaring her and lifting her up, up, up—before it all went black.  
  
She blinked the sleep from her eyes and swallowed, squinting against the sudden brightness and the onslaught of wind. White and blue surrounded her, blurred by the searing light of the sun.  
  
But through the discomfort, Ahiru couldn't help but notice the strange warmth encompassing her. It was only then that she remembered just what carried her off into its frightening grip.  
  
Her breath hitched in her throat. Claws curled around her, pinning her into a solid, yet warm form above—not painfully, but securely. Scales were pressed against her skin, and below, the endless white billowed.  
  
The dragon held her up in the air, above even the very clouds.  
  
Panic seized her, a jolt of sudden realization shooting up and down her spine. That was all real! The creature had taken her from her betrothed and his kingdom. And they were flying higher and with more speed than she ever had before. She heard the ' _whoosh_ ' of great wings beating the air above, the speed forceful and swift with the wind pelting at her skin.  
  
Ahiru braced herself, willing her lungs to take in as much of the thin air as she could. Then, releasing a shrill, frustrated cry, she threw her hands up above her head to collide with the solid abdomen of the beast that carried her. Over and over, she pounded her fists against the scaly body, uncaring that she felt small and insignificant with her pitiful blows. At the very least, she would make sure it knew just how angry she was!  
  
The beast grunted, its hold around her shifting as it's long neck arched downward to look at her upside-down, its wings never ceasing it's constant movement through the air. She glanced up, eyes widening. In the light, she could make out the grotesque details she missed in the shadows of the night before; emerald irises burned into her own, the sunlight glinting off of the obsidian scales framing a sharp, angled, rigid snout, the head crowned with two, razor-tipped horns. Ahiru froze, her fists pausing against it's abdomen as dread clutched washed over her.  
  
And it just seemed to _stare_ at her. She couldn't bring herself to move or say anything more, caught up in the sight of a horrific beast of legend, high up in the skies, completely helpless in its hold.  
  
Then, a sudden gust of wind bombarded her slack-jawed face. She choked, her eyes clenching shut as she tilted her head down and lifted her arms to shelter herself as best as she could. It was persistent and cold, especially without her skirts to protect her from the elements.  
  
But the monster shifted its hold, one clawed arm leaving her, but the other still solidly and securely keeping her aloft. When the winds spontaneously stopped its assault, she glanced up again, lowering her arms.  
  
The large, hideous clawed hand was positioned above her head, shielding her from the flurry as the creature maneuvered deftly through the rough winds. She blinked, bewildered. Did it just--? No way. That was impossible.  
  
When they began to slow again, it lowered its claw to curl around her middle once more. It didn't even bother to look at her again. “Y-You--!” she stuttered, wondering if her voice was lost in the wind, “This is—put me down, put me down _now_!” Hollering, she resumed her struggles against it, disregarding her confusion.  
  
It released a rumbling breath, turning its head downward to look at her again. This time, she refused to let the panic seize her. Ahiru met its gaze head-on, blinking back her tears when those terrifying green orbs stared again. “You've taken me far enough, you hear me?! You have no right!” She gave one last blow with her fist against the creature body. “You put me down, you _monster_!”  
  
The clawed hands jerked, loosening the grip it had around her and sending her almost lurching right out of the hold. Ahiru squeaked and threw her arms and legs out, clinging desperately to one claw and burying her face into the scales.  
  
After a moment, the hands curled in once more to secure her. She trembled, still not relinquishing her hold on the claw, but glancing up. The dragon seemed to roll it's large eyes before resuming it's casual flight.  
  
It had almost dropped her! Just like that! She didn't know whether to feel frightened or aggravated. And as she remained there, clinging stupidly to her kidnapper's claws, helplessness blanketed over her as the weight of the situation finally set in. Was there really nothing she could do?

* * *

  
  
It felt like an eternity.  
  
An entire day passed. Perhaps longer—the dragon's flight seemed to be chasing the sun. There was silence, but for the swift wind echoing in her ears.  
  
Her mind wandered as she laid uselessly within the monster's grasp. Good memories were a comfort to her at least for now. She thought of her mother and the little porcelain ballerina that danced on the music box when she was a child. She thought of sweet Pique and enthusiastic Lilie, and how worried (or excited) they were for her now that she had been missing for an entire day. She thought of her sweet prince, her soon-to-be husband, the one she was supposed to be with right then.  
  
He must've been so worried. And the monster had taken her so far away. An entire day of flight was a long distance. How would her prince be able to find her? He wouldn't know where to look, or how far to travel, or in what direction.  
  
Ahiru swallowed, eyes scanning the pinks and purples of the sunset. It was up to her to escape. As soon as she had her chance, she needed to take action and figure out how to contact Vineta herself. This thing had to land sooner or later. Maybe she could make a run for it—no, this was a monster that could fly, and even when it was still looked like a human man, he had great strength and speed. Maybe she could wait until it was asleep somehow. Or find something to distract it while she figured out where to go and how to make contact with Vineta!  
  
She was on her own. She knew her prince would come looking for her, but it wasn't all up to Siegfried!  
  
Ahiru stopped from getting too excited, swallowing her anxiety down again. She was getting ahead of herself like always, letting her scattered mind overcome everything else. One thing at a time. Ahiru would have to figure out what to do when they finally stopped.  
  
She hoped it would be soon. Her limbs ached and prickled with lack of use and she felt lightheaded, her lungs burning for thicker air. Perhaps she should've been hungry, too, but she certainly had no appetite after all of this.  
  
The sun almost completely dipped behind the horizon by the time the monster finally made its gradual descent. She held her breath when its flight sloped downward, cool droplets scattering across her cheeks as they parted the clouds and emerged beneath them.  
  
As the monster continued gliding past a line of mountains packed thick with a green forest canopy, her lips parted in awe, and she had temporarily forgotten her plight.  
  
Surrounded on all sides by the forested, jagged hills was a valley—a meadow of pure, pearl-white grass almost glowing in the deep pinks and purples of twilight. The white valley was large enough to possibly fit a small hamlet, and it would be considered barren if not for a lofty, leafless white tree that stood firm and unyielding in the very center. Waxen branches reached upwards toward the cloudy skies as the last of daylight disappeared.  
  
Whimsical and undisturbed in the nighttime, it was something out of a dream that she never had. Ahiru relinquished her grip around the claws around her, her hold growing slack as they dipped past the forest and began to approach the lone tree, the monster slipping through the air and skimming just above the sloping tops of the surrounding woods. Ahiru merely had to reach down to brush her fingers over the sharp pine needles.  
  
The white tree was larger now that they closed in, mighty, solid, and tall despite its lack of foliage. The bark was too brilliant and too vibrant in the growing darkness for the tree to possibly be dead, she supposed.  
  
It was only when the monster flew down to the base of the forested mountain that Ahiru realized just how fast they were moving. They zoomed over the pearl grasses, a white blur beneath and the tree looming larger and larger above. Finally, it began to slow down with a great beat of its wings and she felt the pull of inertia pressing into her chest. She took a deep breath, once again gripping the claw for security as they came to a stop near the great tree.  
  
Finally, they arrived. Wherever they were.  
  
The monster dropped her. She crumpled to the soft ground with a yelp, her limbs aching and tingling painfully with lack of use. It hurt to even budge them, and she had to steady herself with her hands against the ground. Ahiru inhaled sharply from the discomfort. The sudden cease in motion disoriented her.  
  
She held her head for a moment and squinted through the headache. At least they finally landed. That was definitely one last thing to worry about!  
  
Ahiru looked up at the sounds of pained groans—the crack of bones, the shredding of flesh.  
  
The monster landed a few feet away with its back turned away from her, and when she glanced toward the disturbing noises, her own breath stopped. The bat-like wings, massive as they were, sunk, folded, and dug back into human skin. The towering creature had shrunken down into the smaller form once more, hunched over in the tall, white grass and twitching under the strain. After several agonizing moments, she winced when the last of the wings embedded themselves beneath muscle and bone, safely under the shoulder blades.  
  
It— _he_ —released one last moan, the darkness of his silhouette trembling against the white backdrop of their surreal surroundings. His shoulders and back heaved as he greedily gasped for breath, the sounds of pain dissipating just as quickly as the dragon form itself.  
  
All the while, she was frozen, unable to tear her eyes away. She brought her hands up to cover her mouth in dismay, and she wanted to ask if he was alright despite every crime he committed against her.  
  
When the heavy breathing stopped, the monster-turned-human staggered to its feet, completely and utterly bare. Her first instinct was to squeak, flailing her arms at her side and sprint away, her freckled cheeks flushing with embarrassment and shame. Inappropriate on top of heartless and horrible!  
  
But she stopped, both from the lack of feeling in her limbs and from something _dark_ that caught her attention in her peripheral vision. Her eyes caught a strange, foreign mark that marred his back.  
  
Ahiru ignored his bare form for the moment, only taking notice of the hideous lesion that slashed across his torso, beginning from beyond top of his shoulder and ending near his left hip. The papery, discolored flesh was thicker along his shoulder, sloping down and ending in a sharp tip. It looked as though it might've even stretched to the front of his chest, but she couldn't tell from there. Had it been trauma from his transformation...?  
  
She was horrified for him. How had he even survived something like that?  
  
The man turned his head to glance over his shoulder, his expression cold—as if he hadn't just been a monster not a moment ago and twisted and morphed grotesquely into a person within the span of a minute.  
  
His stare was unnerving. Ahiru gulped and her gaze fell downward and away from his own.  
  
“Hey!” the man barked with a snarl, animalistic even now. He slouched a bit and turned further away from her, and even in the darkness, there was a hint of redness to his cheeks—it must've been her imagination, because monsters who kidnapped young ladies and ripped off their skirts couldn't possibly have the capability to be _embarrassed_. “Quit _gawking_ , moron!”  
  
“Eh?! I wasn't--!” Ahiru's eyes widened when she realized what that must've seemed like. She didn't look at him or anything! At least, not _that_ part of him! Even if he was standing there after kidnapping her and flying her a day's distance away from her betrothed without even wearing any clothes--!  
  
\-- _This was so indecent_!  
  
She squealed in dismay, throwing her hands up and over her eyes and sprawling backward, unladylike and clumsy. She was suddenly glad that her prince wasn't there to see her make a fool out of herself, sitting out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but her bloomers, blouse, and bodice with a monster-human. Or to see her in such close proximity of a man who was now a criminal and was standing there without a shred of cloth on him! “ _You're_ the one just standing there and—I wasn't looking! I promise! That was—hey, you're the one who kidnapped _me_! Don't act like I'm the terrible one here!” She refused to glance up, her eyes screwed firmly shut.  
  
She heard a string of aggravated grumbles, the rustle of grass, and footsteps sliding along soft ground toward the white tree nearby. Not once did she lower her arms or open her eyes. “And,” she continued, frustrated, flustered, and panicked, “I'm not a moron!” Her voice rose an octave, sounding quacklike and utterly improper.  
  
There was a snort, and then silence.  
  
Chancing a look, she inched one eye open. There was only the blurry sight of the man's dark silhouette against the white tree, his palm against the bark, before she slammed her eye shut again before she could make out any unsavory details.  
  
Before she could speak, the world began to quake.  
  
Ahiru was forced to lower her hands to steady herself as the ground shook beneath her. “W-Whoa!” Before her, the monster-person still kept his palm firmly planted to the thick trunk of the barren tree even while the roots began to shift. They curled about, pulling away at the dirt and grass, lifting and struggling to uproot. She could only stare as the roots pulled back, finally ripping away from the ground and opening up into a large chasm beneath the earth, a black hole in the sea of white. The tree ceased its movements. The world stilled.  
  
She released a breath that she didn't know she'd been holding. The man kept his back to her—thankfully—as he walked around to the front of the opening in the ground. He stepped down, and from her vantage point, she could see a set of what looked like stairs leading deeper into the abyss. Keeping her gaze away from him, but her peripherals at attention, she knew he'd hunched down to grab something from the steps.  
  
There was a sudden shadow, and a _whoosh_ of fabric. When she looked up, he'd been cloaked, his bare form and that hideous scar now concealed from her vision.  
  
That was when she realized that this must've all been planned. He'd been prepared. He knew he would kidnap her. He knew he would bring her to this place at this time. Maybe the fire, too! Dragons in lore could create fire, couldn't they? From the very beginning, he had always planned to take her away while everyone was distracted. Everything had been him!  
  
Ahiru took a deep breath and staggered to her feet, glancing around frantically. She had to escape! She had to find out how to get back to Vineta! She needed Prince Siegfried!  
  
The clouds that had blocked out the moon and stars were threateningly gray. In the distance, she saw the flash of lightning. A few moments later, the rumble of thunder. Had it always been this cloudy? Were they flying that high above them that she hadn't even noticed?  
  
The lightning revealed what the moonlight could not reach. About a mile away in every other direction, a forest of pine towered above along the jagged cliffs and mountains that were far too steep to climb effectively. She was in the dead-center of the white valley, probably easy to spot if she made a run for it in the middle of these plains. And …  
  
“You can run if you want.”  
  
His tone was mocking. Ahiru whirled around to face him, her lip jutting out in a defiant pout and her blue eyes blazing. Now that he had been properly covered by a black, sleeved cloak, he stood straight and tall with an arrogance that ruffled her feathers to no end.  
  
That smirk and the cold green of his eyes said it all. She could run if she wanted. But she wouldn't get far. Not with a storm approaching. In slippers, bloomers, and a blouse, she wouldn't have been able to stand the cold or the wild. And how would she be able to escape someone who could turn into a _dragon_ of all things? Even as a human, he was tall and imposing, and she felt his strong grip when he first grabbed her back in Vineta.  
  
Her fists clenched at her sides. He'd probably love to _watch_ her try to escape.  
  
At her fuming silence, he turned away, the smirk never leaving his face. With a wave of his arm, he gestured to the gaping hole at the base of the tree—oak, it could've been, but for the ethereal glow. “After you.”  
  
Dread took hold once more. If she went down there with him, would there be any way out again? But she couldn't very well just stand there. There was no one around for miles even if she did escape over the mountainous forest. Perhaps this … was her only chance to keep living until she could find a way to reach out to Prince Siegfried.  
  
She approached the opening. The darkness stretched downward beyond what she could see. It smelled stagnant down there, with stone steps and dirt and soil on every side of the strange, underground tunnel. Trying to sound braver than she truly felt, she faced the man, having to turn her head up all the way just to look him in the eye—she only came up to his shoulder, she realized. “I—I want to know why you've taken me!”  
  
His answer was curt. “Hurry up, moron. We don't have all damn night.”  
  
“I'm not a—fine!” Ahiru huffed with an unladylike stomp of her foot.  
  
Yes. Fine. She would go down there. Then, she'd get her answers. She would find a way to safely get _out_. She couldn't give up hope yet. There was always, always a way.  
  
Ahiru gripped her pendant, took a deep breath, and stepped into the abyss.

* * *

  
  
“Your Highness, please! We need you _here_!”  
  
But Prince Siegfried would have none of it. If a monstrous creature, with a long tail and terrifying wings had spirited his fiancee away, then he had to be the one to find her.  
  
He hitched his sword to his hip and saddled a Pegasus. General Lysander and several other knights likewise prepared their own steeds. However, his council members attempted to push past the armored men, attempting to flock the prince with documents and protests. “The Rungholtan prince still needs a response and you cannot leave in the middle of negotiations! Our kingdoms will--!”  
  
With a startling lack of patience, Prince Siegfried snapped his hand up, palm forward, for silence. His lips were pursed, golden eyes flickering, and the advisers were effectively quieted.  
  
“None of it matters,” he whispered, “without her.”  
  
He lifted himself gracefully up and onto the saddle and took the reins in his hands. With a click and a tug, the winged horse burst from the stone bridge and up, leading his company into the skies.  
  
Northward, the little girl had said. Northward it was, then.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Docktor Locktor


	3. Minuet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With that contact, black markings immediately grew from where his palm met the wood, curling into intricate shapes and tendrils. Silently, the streaks began to meet, shaping itself with sharp, distinct lines in the flickering light of the torch. They formed an image—an insignia of what appeared to be the silhouette of a horned, winged dragon, its serpentine tail curling around a spherical shape.
> 
> When the image was complete, he removed his hand, and the sphere began to glow scarlet—not unlike the color of her own pendant. The eyes of the drawn dragon opened, golden and bright.
> 
> The earth shifted. Ahiru stumbled back, holding onto the wall as dirt and dust gave way, the wooden barrier splitting down the middle of the image and grinding open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the constant support! Please leave any comments, criticisms, or thoughts you may have! I appreciate every single one of you!

The air was stagnant in the darkness. Ahiru moved downward, shakily reaching out to grip the earthy wall to her right for balance. Around her there were only the shadows of the tunnel, and one wooden, unlit torch clinging against the dirt beside her on a protruding hook. She paused after the first five steps, glancing back uneasily.

The man, even taller now that he was above her, followed after her. He reached up with one arm and patted one of the roots that curled over the edge of the opening—as if greeting a comrade. Such a ridiculous notion, she thought, to think of a white oak as a friend.  
  
He ducked his head, and the roots pulled forward, entwining together and sealing the hole, diminishing all possible light from above and drowning the tunnel in darkness. Ahiru squeaked, unable to even make out her hands in front of her. She desperately leaned against the wall, afraid to budge. “W-Wait, I can't see!”  
  
There was an audible snort from him again, and then the sound of footfalls coming down the steps. They stopped just beside her, and in the cold shadows, she felt the warmth of his body. Her breath caught in her throat and she pressed herself against the dirt wall, knowing that he must've been right beside her. The brush of his robe against her arm made her shiver.  
  
Her jaw fell slack when he suddenly released a deep, sighing breath, a gust of hot warmth fanning across her cheeks. A small stream of embers left his _lips_ and ignited the torch. She flinched away from the flames, eyes wide.

He could breathe fire?

In the flickering light, the robed man's green eyes glimmered, his startled gaze meeting hers for a moment. He was just above her and he seemed as surprised as she was at their close proximity.  
  
She shrunk away with a suspicious pout and he glanced uncomfortably to the side. His eyebrow twitched as he distinctly took one large step back. “Come on,” he snarled, turning around to stalk off down the steps, keeping a hold on the torch, the embers licking upward and illuminating the tunnel with flickering light.

Unwilling to remain alone in the dark, she followed, keeping a safe distance between herself and the man in front of her. She didn't even know that he could breathe fire in that monstrous form, let alone when he was just a man. At this point, she shouldn't have been so surprised—it all suddenly made more sense. “So you _did_ start that fire!”

He didn't respond to her. She sighed and kept on.

They walked for a while. Her frown deepened. They were going pretty far down. She kept a hand on the wall, carefully trying to keep up with the man's swift pace. It figured that he was perfectly balanced and at ease in the darkness. Jerkish monsters could apparently do _anything_ when kidnapping people.

The air was thick and old. Just how deep underground were they now? She had half a mind to turn on her heel and make a break for the surface again, but she doubted she had the strength to pull the roots apart.

… Pique and Lilie would be very impressed if they knew how smart she was trying to be. Ahiru sighed audibly, shoulders slumping. “ _I wonder what they're up to now,_ ” she thought, “ _And Mytho must be so worried._ ”

She glanced back up at the man, puffing out her cheeks. The silence made her antsy—it made her mind wander. She could hear each shuffling step along the ground, the swish of fabric brushing along the stone. With a shiver, she found her voice, unable to stand the quiet. “S-So,” she began, her fingers curling and trembling around the ruffly waistband of her bloomers, “are you going to tell me why you took me here?” She tried to sound impatient, but it came out as a high-pitched stutter. She blushed with shame. She was trying to be so smart about everything, but now …

… She had to be strong! She needed to make Prince Siegfried proud of her. She wasn't just a simple young girl. She was fiancee to a prince. She was a lady of nobility and she had to keep her wits and her dignity about her.

When he didn't answer her, she took a deep breath and tried again, stronger this time. “Well?! Answer me!”

Her shrill insistence seemed to do the trick. The man's shoulders hitched up in a cringing motion, and he glared over his shoulder. “The further we walk down, the harder it is to breathe. Save your breath.”

“Hmph ...” Ahiru trailed off, resuming her nervous fiddling of her ruffles.

The silence stretched on once more. And with the silence, her mind wandered again as it so often tended to do when she was alone. It wasn't a very becoming or ladylike quality of hers. She wondered how long it would take before they arrived in their strange destination, or what the place would be like—perhaps just a deep, deep cave. And if he was so worried about her losing breath, just how far were they even going to go? They'd been walking for so long. And there were a _lot_ of steps here!

As her thoughts took her in dizzying circles, she didn't notice her misstep, and the slight narrowing of one of the steps below her.

Hair prickled at the back of her neck, the shock of imbalance struck her form, and the slide of her slipper-ed feet against the edge of the step overwhelmed her, her arms flying out on instinct. She was falling forward! “W- _Wah_!”

Her legs moved on their own for those brief, heart-stopping moments, her feet scrambling to find solid ground. Her center of gravity moved ahead of her lower half, and the sharp, stone stairs were quickly approaching her face—!

“Hey!”

A firm, bruising grip suddenly clenched around her wrist, jerking her backward before the ground could collide with her head. She released a yelp as she was swung back, landing painfully onto her rear. With a wince, she looked up, realizing that the man still had her arm in his grasp, his scowl shadowed in the dark. The torch had been dropped, rolling a few steps down, the fire flickering and reflecting off the walls. “Watch yourself, you idiot!”

Ahiru blinked up at him, trying to calm her racing heart as he all but threw her hand back at her, stomping away to pick up the torch. “Get up and this time, pay attention!”

She took a few deep breaths, holding her pendant for reassurance. He saved her again.

Come to think of it, he'd been very mindful with her. Aside from last night when he actually kidnapped her (and hurled her into the canal and ripped off her skirts and—!), he'd been rather conscious of her well-being. He had a penchant for manhandling her, but when it came to serious injuries, he paid attention. As a monster, he'd covered her head from volatile winds. He'd just now stopped her from tumbling down the stairs and breaking her neck.

She stared up at him as he retrieved the torch a few steps down and her eyes widened. After all this time, she figured it out. The reason he took her, but still treated her carefully.

Ahiru rose to her feet, fists balled up at her sides. “I'm a _hostage_!”

The man paused, once again glancing over his shoulder, his eyebrow lifted, but otherwise deadpan.

She was convinced that was the reason. If she was to be hurt under his watch, then her value went down and he would certainly get less of whatever he wanted from Prince Siegfried. Why didn't she realize it before? And if that was the case, then he probably left a note somewhere in the Grand Chateau for the prince to find, giving him his terms.

Now, she definitely had to find her way out of this on her own. She didn't want to trouble her prince. He would certainly save her and, knowing him, he would do whatever it took.

And that _wasn't_ okay with Ahiru. She was more determined than ever before. “All of this! It's because you're taking me hostage!”

Meanwhile, the man just blinked at her new revelation. After a moment, he growled, his eyebrows furrowing. “... Sure. Just keep moving, idiot.”

When he resumed his pace, her shoulders slumped. Sure? That was it? “... I'm _not_ an idiot. And I _won't_ let you use me to get to the prince!”

He ignored her. She took one last, longing look behind her into the darkness, toward the surface and toward what would've been freedom. Then, she turned away and followed the light of the torch he held.

* * *

 

Prince Siegfried ignored the strain on his body, leaning forward and gripping the reins of his Pegasus against the rough winds, his cape whipping about behind him.

His company of General Lysander and twelve other knights did not bode as well. They trailed after him in the air, discouraged by their long flight and the foreboding clouds that gathered above them. Their mounts were pushing exhaustion and the momentum that they started with that morning was quickly dwindling.

General Lysander's frown deepened, his fatigue finally catching up with him. A glance backward showed him that his men were even worse off. Some were slumped forward, relying heavily on the struggling steeds. Others gulped greedily from their waterskins. The extra weight of their full plate wasn't helping.

This was senseless. The sun was incredibly close to setting now, the pink and purple hue of the sky reflecting off of darkening storm clouds. Prince Siegfried hadn't even acknowledged them or given hint to stopping.

Lysander wanted so badly to just go home and back to his sculpting.

Bolstered and determined, he nudged the sides of his mount with his heels, spurring the Pegasus forward to flank the prince. He spoke, gruff voice attempting to conquer the winds. “Your Highness!”

Prince Siegfried merely turned to look at him. For a moment, Lysander was startled by the sudden sharpness in his gaze. The prince's eyes were usually so soft. He cleared his throat and continued. “Your Highness, we must stop; we've taken to the skies for an entire day. Our mounts can't keep up much longer!”

The prince, though, hadn't shown a hint of stopping. He kept his eyes trained ahead. Lysander thought it strange. “Your Highness,” he continued, “please, it's almost sunset. Our men are tired, and I fear a storm is on the horizon. We must stop for the night and consider further action!”

Finally, Prince Siegfried glanced up, his expression softening. Around them, the air shifted, a rumbling in the distance that promised thunder and lightning. Prince Siegfried relented with a nod—a gesture that relieved and reassured the general. That was more like him. “Let us descend. We'll make camp down below.”

They were met by sighs of relief from the men behind them, and they tugged at the reins of their mounts, making their way back to the earth.

It was apparent just how grateful the knights were to be back on solid ground. Immediately, they began setting up camp at the edge of the woods. No one quite knew where they were, but the idea of rest rejuvenated their morale.

Their encampment was strategic. The largest tent had been pitched in the middle, where the prince and General Lysander would be staying. The rest of the knights had encircled it, their campfires spread throughout as the sun began to set. To shield their mounts from the coming rains, they fashioned simple stabling with their extra canvas tent and nearby trees. It was best that they'd finish up before night fell. A storm was coming.

Prince Siegfried hunched over the table in his tent, a lantern illuminating the expanse and the map spread out across the wooden surface. They'd traveled an entire day and still had not seen any sign of a gigantic creature as described by the little girl in Vineta.

His general and another knight stepped inside, pushing back the opening flap of the tent. Lysander made his way to his bedroll, sighing as he began to unstrap and remove his armor with the other knight's help. “Your Highness,” he began, shrugging off his pauldrons, “we didn't prepare for this. We simply do not have the supplies or the manpower to keep searching for more than another day.”

The prince didn't glance up. “My fiancee has been _taken_ , Lysander.”

Lysander winced at his prince's firm, almost abrasive tone. Perhaps the Lady Ahiru truly had affected him so deeply. It was simply a marvel, though, at how suddenly the change came. “Of course, I understand, Your Highness.” He paused, allowing the other knight to remove his breastplate. “Thank you, Demetri.” Demetri began to set aside each of the metal components of the armor off in the corner of the tent as Lysander spoke again. “But if I may, we _could_ return to Vineta and better equip ourselves before—”

“Before _what_?” Once again, Lysander was stricken by the prince's impatience. Though he didn't raise his voice, he was on edge, and biting in tone. Prince Siegfried still did not glance up from his map. “Before it is too late? Before she is perhaps killed or devoured by a nameless, monstrous beast?” Lysander watched as Siegfried's shoulders rose and fell with deep, composing breaths. “I will not wait. Every moment we waste is another moment in which she is in danger. We will continue northbound. Surely we can spot a creature of such a large size from the skies.”

The general fell silent, meeting Demetri's uncertain gaze. With a sigh of resignation, Lysander nodded. “Aye, Your Highness.”

“Good. Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we ride again.”

* * *

 

“You know,” Ahiru began, pouting at the man's back, “even after all this walking, I'm breathing just fine. I dunno what you were talking about earlier.” Sure, the air was thick and warm, but she was doing decidedly fine.

He snorted. “I just wanted you to shut up. Worked until now.”

The redhead was incensed, finally unable to keep herself from blurting out every negative thing she could think of. Gone was the demure, young noblewoman of Hedeby, making way for the young girl she truly was. She puffed out her cheeks, her hands clenching at her sides. “We have been walking _forever_! I have been patient and quiet and you've been just so—so _mean_ this whole time, turning into big monsters and grabbing me and kidnapping me and being a terrible whatever-you-are and— _oof!_ ”

He'd stopped so abruptly that she didn't even realize she walked right into his cloaked back. She stumbled back, holding her nose. “W-What did you stop for?! At least _tell_ me when—”

“We're here,” he interrupted dryly.

“Eh?”

She sidestepped to look around his taller, shadowed form, blinking at the round, wooden wall in front of her. It looked like it could've been a door, but there was no knob or knocker to be found. And it was strangely out of place when surrounded by soil, dirt, and sediment on all sides.

He couldn't have brought her all the way down here for a simple wooden wall. There was bound to be something behind this. Ahiru glanced up at him with uncertainty.

Her answer came quickly. He stepped forward with his free hand outstretched and pressed his hand to it. With that contact, black markings immediately grew from where his palm met the wood, curling into intricate shapes and tendrils. Silently, the streaks began to meet, shaping itself with sharp, distinct lines in the flickering light of the torch. They formed an image—an insignia of what appeared to be the silhouette of a horned, winged dragon, its serpentine tail curling around a spherical shape.

When the image was complete, he removed his hand, and the sphere began to glow scarlet—not unlike the color of her own pendant. The eyes of the drawn dragon opened, golden and bright.

The earth shifted. Ahiru stumbled back, holding onto the wall as dirt and dust gave way, the wooden barrier splitting down the middle of the image and grinding open.

The doors were finally gaping wide, and the quaking settled. She pushed herself from the wall and took a step forward, oddly curious as the tall man took it upon himself to step right through the threshold ahead of her. “Let's go,” he commanded over his shoulder.

Ahiru stopped at the doorway, her lips parting. There was cobblestone beneath her feet, and before her, a town.

Or at least a shell of what used to be one. It was small hamlet, if that, and she guessed that the Grand Chateau's grounds were more extensive than this. The huts were made from stone and rotting wood. They lacked proper roofing and doors, the openings covered by hanging, shredded fabric. What used to be roads were illuminated by crooked lampposts, embers flickering inside lanterns casting shadows over the dark town. She looked up, her breath catching in her throat at the high dome-like ceiling of earth, old roots, sediment, and rock, surrounding this little village on all sides. At the edge off to her right was what could've been a dock, or perhaps one side of a bridge, crumbled from deterioration and dropping off into the abyss.

It felt cold and empty. How long had this place been here, so deep underground? Ahiru bit her lip, frightened.

The man stopped a little way in, pausing to turn toward her and sneer. “Well?”

She hesitated with a shiver, stepping back, her eyes darting from him to her grim surroundings and then back. She hadn't expected something like this—perhaps a cave, or maybe his own home, but not an entire village so far beneath the surface. Was he the only one who lived here? And where had this place come from?

Were there more monsters?

Her lip trembled and she turned on her heel to run out through the threshold and back up the steps. However, her captive was quick, and in three long strides he was behind her, grabbing the long, red braid of her hair and yanking. She yelped from the sharp pain as he tugged her back toward him. “Ah— _ow_! Let me g—!”

“Shut up, you _idiot_.” He growled lowly, clamping a firm hand over her lips as he pulled her against him. She flailed her arms and kicked her feet, struggling against his hold around her mouth and waist. Her screams were effectively muffled against his palm, however, and his grip had not relented. “You'll wake everyone up,” he hissed, his breath hot against her ear.

Ahiru froze in his arms at his words. So there were more. And they were all asleep. She would be surrounded by monsters when they awoke, and there would be nothing she could do. Running away now and making a ruckus just wasn't the way to handle this.

Up until then, she thought herself to be so brave. So smart. But everything was beginning to hit her. She was miles and miles away from her prince, deep underground, surrounded by possibly more dragons that could breathe fire and no viable way to get word out where she was. She said she wasn't going to let this man treat her like a hostage. She said that she would find a way back to her prince on her own.

But _how_?

Slowly, she found herself growing limp in the man's arms, slumping forward and letting her eyes fall shut in resignation. She didn't want to lose hope. Not yet.

He slowly released her, letting her stand on her own two, wobbly feet. She allowed him to grab her forearm and drag her off, stumbling after his quick pace with her shorter stride. For the time being, she had to go along with this until she was left alone.

Her steps shuffled clumsily along the cobblestone, her eyes darting about. It was so quiet down here, without the rustling of the trees or chirping of birds. This place seemed almost frozen and stagnant. There was an air of sameness, as if it remained untouched.

She was taken to a sudden opening in the ground, a gaping hole in the stone floor with a wooden ladder leading down a tunnel. The man dropped her arm and moved to the ladder, easily and fluidly beginning to descend. He glanced up to glare at her. “When I reach the bottom, start coming down. _Carefully_.”

With a sigh, she waited, leaning over the edge to watch him. It was about twenty feet down to the bottom, the tunnel ending about halfway down. Just how far did he plan to descend? And she couldn't very well just stay there. What if those “others” he talked about woke up?

He was quick to make his way down, and upon reaching the bottom, he looked up and gestured to her impatiently, expression deadpan. With shaking limbs, she slowly followed, her hands clenching the creaking wood and her feet struggling to keep a firm footing in the dark tunnel. When she descended far enough and the tunnel stopped, she glanced around. It was just the same as the level at the top, with stone and wood huts, crooked lampposts, and cobblestone ground.

This whole town was situated on platforms deep underground. It just didn't seem possible.

“Hey, quit dawdling!”

“Gah—!”

She slipped in her surprise, losing her grip on the wood and her slippers sliding out of balance. Ahiru felt a rush of air, her heart leaping into her throat, and she fell, her mouth open in a silent scream.

“I said _careful_!”

She collided into a warm, solid body, firm arms wrapping around her before she and her kidnapper both crashed to the ground. He grunted in pain, his expression twisting into a grimace as her elbow dug into his side. Almost as soon as the air rushed back into her lungs, she scrambled off of him, her heart hammering into her chest from adrenaline. “I-I'm so sorry, I—!” She stopped, though, realizing that she wasn't the one who was supposed to be apologizing. He was the one who took her here, and it served him right.

Part of her felt rather satisfied, seeming him on the ground with pain twisting his features. He deserved a little discomfort! Pouting and crossing her arms over her chest, she huffed and turned away, letting him adjust his cloaked robe as he stood up. “You're such a damn pain,” he said from behind her, once again grabbing her arm and dragging her off when he caught his breath.

Though she didn't fight off his grip (he was too strong regardless), she sent him a dirty look of her own, her cheeks puffing out in a very unladylike fashion. “Then maybe you shouldn't have kidnapped me!”

“As if I had a choice,” he retorted.

“What's that supposed to mean?!”

He didn't bother to answer her, leading her to one hut in particular. She fell silent, her nerves getting the better of her as he pushed back the fabric that covered the doorway.

It was empty—barren, even. There was barely anything in there. A small cot made of straw sat in the corner, with a thin sheet and pillow folded neatly at the head of it. On the opposite side sat a single chair and table, old and tilted, and there was a lone bucket and washtub right in the open. At the very end of the hut was what used to be a fireplace with a single cauldron hanging from the hearth.

Her kidnapper pushed her inside and released her. “You're staying here now. Get used to it.” The man took a step inside after her, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

She frowned. To be frank, she had expected much less. Ahiru opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted when the cloth was pushed back again and a little, curious voice echoed through the hut.

“Ohhhh!”

Ahiru turned, blinking down at a little girl with pale skin and wide, blue eyes. Her mint-green hair was swept back aside from the tendrils curling up in two little cowlicks. She had tiny, doll-like, round features, expression full of wonder. She wore striped, colorful bloomers and a little waistcoat, an old drum strapped around her waist, a drum stick in each hand. The tiny girl was a piece of life in an otherwise dead village.

The last sort of person Ahiru expected. She was rather adorable, actually, and Ahiru's heart warmed just looking at her. She had almost forgotten where she was or the circumstances that brought her here. “O-Oh! Hello!”

The kidnapper seemed to blink in surprise, his harsh expression softening as he took a step toward the little girl and ruffled her hair. “Oi. You're up late. Go to bed.”

“Fakir is back-zura!” She began to drum to a quick, loud rhythm, her tiny feet tapping with the tempo. It echoed through the hut and bounced off the stone walls. “And he brought a new friend-zura?”

Ahiru's eyebrows rose and her jaw fell slack as the kidnapper (the same who hurled her into a canal, the same who transformed into a grotesque creature that breathed fire, the same who kidnapped her from her fiance and planned to use her to get to her prince) knelt down beside the drumming girl and gently took one stick from her hand, affectionately pinching her cheek. “Hey, keep it down. You'll wake everyone up.”

Another voice came from the entrance, sultry and feminine. “Hm. You're back. Ah—”

Once again, the fabric had been pushed back by a second arrival. Ahiru glanced away from the little girl and the kidnapper, turning her gaze toward the woman who just entered the hut. She was positively beautiful, her striking, crimson eyes finding Ahiru's blue. Full, dark hair framed her heart-shaped face, pale skin radiant and without a single blemish. She held herself elegantly, her chin lifted and shoulders back, her form lithe, yet shapely. Ahiru suddenly felt inadequate, both envying and admiring the woman before her—she could've been a princess far more fitting for a prince than the redhead ever could be.

Ahiru's cheeks warmed and she was driven to speechlessness. Indeed, the woman would look flawless in a proper gown instead of the stitched, rough dress she wore now. So beautiful.

Then, she was stricken when the woman's expression hardened, her crimson eyes narrowing. She stepped forward gracefully, reaching to take Ahiru's hand, her skin cool and soft to the touch. Ahiru didn't have a mind to pull away. “Fakir, you scoundrel,” she began coldly, turning her glare (so similar to his) toward the man beside the little girl, “she is in nothing but her _bloomers_.”

The man—Fakir?—scoffed, lifting the drummer girl into his arms as he stood. “I wasn't about to carry ten layers of wet lace—”

“What do you mean _wet_?”

“—and they were just going to get in the damn way.”

“She looks indecent!”

“You,” he spat, glowering at the woman in a way that completely contrasted with the gentle hold around the little girl, “should be _thanking_ me. My job is finished; I'm done. You take it from here. I've had enough of this stupid girl.”

“H-Hey!” Ahiru finally found her voice, pulling her hand away from the woman's hold. “I'm still here, y'know!” Her bottom lip trembled, and she felt overwhelming anxiety welling up in her chest. Just a few minutes ago, things had been simple. That man, Fakir, was the kidnapper and she had to escape from him. Now, there was a little girl with a drum and a beautiful woman scolding him about her _bloomers_ of all things in the middle of this decrepit town that was deep underground and she was being kept prisoner here.

She blinked back her tears, willing herself to not cry in front of them. She took a deep breath, trying to meet their gazes head-on when they looked back at her. “Like I s-said, I don't know what this place is or who you all are, but I won't let you use me to get to the prince!”

The woman's expression softened. “Now, now, that's enough,” she chided, taking Ahiru's shaking hands in her own, her crimson eyes landing on the red jewel hanging from Ahiru's neck. “I promise you. This has nothing to do with any prince.” As if the pendant had confirmed something, the woman looked back into Ahiru's blue eyes and smiled, arresting and cold. “We need _you_. No one else.”

Her words made even less sense than everything she had gone through so far. All of this, and it had nothing to do with the prince? So she wasn't a hostage? “W-What do you even want with me?” Ahiru's voice shook. “I can't give you anything. I didn't _do_ anything!”

She was just a young woman. She wasn't even a proper lady of nobility. She was just … getting married. That was all she ever could live up to.

She felt small.

The woman turned toward the doorway, but stopped and glanced over her shoulder once more. “Rest for tonight. I'll have some _proper_ clothing brought to you.” She paused to send a scathing glare in Fakir's direction. “And food and drink. I expect you've had a long day. What is your name?”

She lowered her gaze to her feet. “... Ahiru.”

There was a pause in which Fakir and the woman raised their eyebrows, sharing a quick glance.

The little drummer girl tilted her head. “Ohhhh … Duck-zura!”

Turning her gaze back to Ahiru, the woman's lips quirked up into a cool smirk. “That's right, Uzura. Duck. It's a fitting name, isn't it?” Ahiru blinked in surprise and confusion. Duck? “Ahiru, my name is Rue. We'll be getting to know one another very well during your stay here.”

“How … how long will that be?”

Fakir made his way to the doorway, his green eyes lingering on her for a moment before he turned away. Uzura, the little girl, stared at her from over his shoulder with wide, inquisitive eyes before Fakir pushed back the hanging fabric and took his leave, cloak billowing behind him.

Rue simpered. “For the rest of your life. So, make yourself at home.”

* * *

 

Lysander couldn't sleep. He ran a hand through his short, blond hair, blinking through the darkness across the tent. The prince slept silently, the steady rise and fall of his chest visible in the shadows.

The general sat up, hunching over and taking deep breaths. The storm had come upon the camp, raindrops pelting against the tent's roof. A gust of cold wind rushed through the small opening in the front of the tent, and though he shivered, the freshness of the air soothed him.

His muscles ached. The long day of travel had been taxing for everyone. He frowned, his large forehead crinkling, thinking on the men in the surrounding tents, hopefully getting the rest they needed—aside from the youngest, Demetri, who had volunteered to keep watch through the midnight hours. The young man would be awake still, he supposed, diligently and loyally making rounds. Now that the storm had arrived, however, he felt rather guilty leaving him out there alone.

Well, he was getting nothing done in here anyway.

Lysander didn't think to put his armor on. They were at the edge of the woods in the middle of nowhere. Keeping watch at night was little more than a formality at this rate. He merely donned his cloak, slipped on his boots, and grabbed his longsword and scabbard, belting it around his waist. The prince would be safe here—he wouldn't be far.

He threw on his hood and stepped outside with his lantern, immediately wincing when the winds and rain showered upon his face. Squinting against the storm, he spotted another glow of a lantern a bit of a distance away near the perimeter of their camp. Lysander made his way over to it, boots sloshing over mud. “Demetri!”

Demetri turned to his general, lifting his own lantern. The young man was in his full plate, his cloak soaked and clinging to the metal. “General!” he called in greeting over the rumbling thunder in the distance.

Lysander came to stand next to the knight, holding his hood down upon his head before it could blow off. “Uhh … how goes it? Do you need rest?”

“All's quiet, sir, but for the storm!” Demetri smiled despite the water dripping down his face beneath his helm and hood. “I have everything under control!”

The general nodded. That was to be expected. “Why not retire, then? The rain will not let up for the night, and I doubt we'll run into trouble out here.” He awkwardly scratched the back of his head beneath the hood. “We'll need you in top shape for our flight tomorrow.”

Demetri nodded slowly, but before he turned to head back into his own tent he shared with two other knights, he cleared his throat. “If I may, sir,” he said, pausing at the flash of light that fractured the sky for a moment, followed shortly by the thunder, “I took inventory earlier. Do you know how long this venture will be? I also am worried for the Lady Ahiru, but ...”

Lysander frowned, his gruff expression falling, and lifted a hand to quietly silence Demetri. He understood. What good were the Knights of Vineta if they were starved and exhausted when they came to claim the Lady Ahiru back? This had been an extremely impulsive move on the prince's part, and oddly enough, Prince Siegfried was _not_ listening to reason. “I know. But we answer to His Highness, no matter what. We will be at his side at all times, in support of every decision.”

Demetri bowed his head. “Of course. Forgive me, sir. I spoke out of turn!”

“No, no.” Lysander waved his hand before clapping it onto the young man's armored shoulder, giving him an awkward, shaky smile. “I'm in agreement. We just have to keep our chins up and our eyes forward! For the sake of the Lady Ahiru!”

“Indeed!” Demetri straightened and placed a fist over his heart in salute. “For the Lady Ahiru! Good night then, sir!”

The general returned the salute as Demetri made to take his leave, lantern swinging by his side.

Then, something in the air changed. The hairs at the back of Lysander's neck stood on end, his muscles tensing, his eyes narrowing. Demetri likewise stopped in his tracks, pivoting in the mud to turn back around.

There was a rustle somewhere behind Lysander, barely audible over the shower of rain.

And then, there were screams.

Lysander turned just in time to see two—now three of the tents suddenly tip over and cave in, the canvas splashing into the soaked earth, overrun by men in dark clothing pouring from the woods beside them. Several slumbering knights within, confused and in nothing but their drawers, stumbled out from under the flattened tents, scrambling for their swords. Frightened Pegasi kicked their hooves, wings flapping viciously sending feathers every which way within their stable.

But the men in dark clothing were upon them in the blink of an eye, daggers glinting in the flash of lightning as they struck.

Lysander acted before even thinking. _The prince_! He stumbled over his unlaced boots in the mud while unsheathing his sword, bolting toward the largest tent to awaken Prince Siegfried. Behind him, he heard Demetri slipping on the soaked ground, armor clanking, hollering over the storm, “We're under attack! Wake up! _We're under attack!_ ”

Scrambling into the tent and shoving back the opening flap, he called out, holding up the lantern. “Your Highness—!”

But the prince was already awake. He was hunched over in the darkness, reaching for his sword adorned with swans. With one, fluid motion, the prince swept his white cloak over his shoulders and unsheathed his blade. His eyes, usually golden and soft, were sharp and narrow, flickering a strange pink in the dim lighting in the tent.

A chill swept through Lysander's body at the sight of it, but he focused his mind. There were far more crucial things to think about.

Outside, the muffled sounds of metal clanging and the barking of panicked men continued. He turned back to the entrance, gritting his teeth, and called out over his shoulder, his voice gruff and rumbling. “Remain behind me, Your Highness! You must stay safe!”

His eyes quickly scanned the area, squinting through the thrum of rain. They must've come in from the woods. A swarm of figures wearing dark clothing moved with lithe and graceful steps along the muddy ground. At least four tents had been ransacked, his own men caught unaware, trying to defend themselves with their swords while stumbling about in nothing but their drawers.

Men—more his own than that of the intruders—were already face-down in the dirt.

Lysander's heart clenched, his brows wrinkling and jaw taut. He lifted his blade, lips curling into a snarl as the battle continued. Blades swung haphazardly through the haze of rain, illuminated briefly by the crash and flash of thunder and lightning. His knights slipped about, stronger than the attackers, but clumsy. The men in dark clothes were shadows, flitting in and out of sight, jabbing with their daggers and taking full advantage of the unarmored soldiers. In the corner of his eye, two intruders sifted through the fallen tents, grabbing items and sacks of belongings and supplies. Two others rushed to the makeshift stables, seizing some panicking Pegasi and leading them away and into the shielding woods.

The urge to jump into the fray, swinging and yelling, was almost overwhelming. They were outnumbered, ill-prepared, and his men _needed_ him. But his loyalty and good sense kept him rooted where he stood, guarding His Highness's tent.

He would _not_ leave his prince! Lysander's teeth ground together as he clenched the handle of his sword, knuckles white.

Then, he was brushed aside, His Highness, Prince Siegfried pushing past him with his sword in hand, leaping into the fray without a second glance.

Lysander's heart dropped, blood running cold. Once again, he acted before thinking and blazed forward to catch up. With movements more elegant and smooth than even the thieves who attacked them, Prince Siegfried's blade sliced through the air, drops of rain dancing and splashing off the steel as he scored one of the bandits in the side. The general skidded to a stop beside him, boots slick in the mud as he brandished his weapon with such brute force to the chest that his own attacker fell back with a splash.

They swiveled around, intercepting the strike of two daggers with their steel, metal against metal ringing with the rumble of thunder. Lysander easily overtook his opponent and pushed back, sending him off balance and into the mud, leaving him open for a swift, downward thrust to the chest. His prince seamlessly sidestepped, his blade slashing across his enemy's abdomen.

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Suddenly, their intruders began to retreat back into the woods, light feet tapping against wet soil, some with large bundles hefted over their shoulders. They moved with the same quiet fluidity with which they arrived, leaving Lysander panting and Prince Siegfried glaring off in their direction. They were in no condition to follow, and they must've known that.

The scrape of armor caught the general's attention. He turned to see his youngest knight tending to two other soldiers; all three were soaked through, Demetri's armor dented and a graze on his cheek, water and blood (that was hopefully not his own) splattered and dripping down his breastplate. The others were in worse condition, with crimson rivulets cascading from gashes across their shoulders and legs, one holding a cut on his forehead as Demetri reached out to wipe the blood from the man's eyes.

Adrenaline had run out and the general finally took a moment to survey the aftermath and catch his breath. There were seven Pegasi remaining in the broken stable, feathers dotting the ground and hooves pounding the soil as they neighed with desperation. A good half of the tents had been torn down, their camp ransacked, useless and marred with rainwater, mud and—

Lysander fell to his knees with a sludgy splash.

—blood.

Bodies were strewn across the miry ground, some in the dark clothes of their intruders, but most in their drawers, grips limp around fallen blades. Rainwater peppered across pale skin and reflected off soiled steel, intermingling with crimson and dirt. Aside from the two knights with Demetri, only three a small distance away began to stir, moaning pitifully and clutching their wounds.

Mouth dry and tears burning behind his eyes, Lysander turned wordlessly toward the woods beside them. He thought they'd be safe. He had no idea there were other settlements or encampments nearby. They were so far from home—this region was unfamiliar to them, and their exhaustion had clouded their judgment.

This was his own fault.

Demetri, shouldering one of his fellow knights, stumbled through the mud. “W-Where did they _come_ from?”

Lysander couldn't bring himself to answer, his mind scrambling for answers. They were skilled and organized, so they couldn't possibly be just a simple group of thieves. Perhaps they spent too long in their peaceful Vineta. There was Rungholt, and now this. And on top of everything …

“We cannot—ah.” Lysander's voice caught in his throat, grief-stricken and muddled by the downpour. “Your Highness, _please_ , we cannot continue our search like this! The men—my men ...”

Lightning fractured the sky, his prince's eyes flickering a cold, pinkish hue before reverting to mournful gold.

* * *

 

Fakir was tired, hungry, and aggravated.

Rue wasn't doing him any favors by pestering him over the little idiot's clothing. All he wanted was a bowl of fruit and a damn good night's rest. Yet, there he was, holding neatly-folded cloth and a dish of food for _someone else_ and trudging all the way down to the lower ground.

At least Uzura fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillows. He wasn't in the mood for bedtime stories. Grumbling to himself, he balanced the bundle and the bowl in his arms as he made his way down the ladder. And here he thought his job was done with.

His footsteps clicked over the cobblestone, echoing into the darkness. No one was up, and even if they were, he could probably still hear the steps over the hum of the town's villagers. This place had a penchant for being cold and empty, after all.

When he approached the prisoner's hut, he caught the unmistakable hiccups and sobs of a crying girl from outside the doorway.

To be honest, he expected her to break down much earlier. His harsh expression softened behind the hanging cloth. She held out this long. He supposed he ought to have given her credit for that much.

Unwilling to watch a young woman—hell, _anyone_ —sobbing, he waited until he heard the cries subside a little, then pushed his way past the heavy, torn fabric. His eyes were used to darkness, and he found her curled form on the bed easily enough, her shoulders trembling from her previous sniveling. It was late, and he wasn't surprised if she just cried herself to sleep.

“W-What do you want?”

He raised an eyebrow. Perhaps not, then. “Nothing. These are yours.” He kept his tone curt and even, because if all went as he planned, he'd be out of there in thirty seconds and never have to speak to the woman again. Crossing the room, he placed the items on the tilted table.

Part of him wanted to pity her. But the shine of red hanging from her neck reminded him that nothing she could do would make him think any better of her.

After all this time …

He turned to leave, but she stopped him, her voice gaining a bit more of that firm, annoying stubbornness that had bothered him for the past day or so. “Can you just please tell me … why?”

Fakir pinched the bridge of his nose. That wasn't his _job_. His part was done with. He found the girl, he brought her here, and that was that. He wasn't great with words. Not anymore. “Wait until morning. They'll decide what to do with you then. Just go to sleep.”

There was a moment of silence before she spoke again. “Whatever it is … I'm _not_ letting you keep me here forever.” Her voice hitched at the last word, high and quack-like. Perhaps she truly did fit her namesake. “I'll f-find a way to get out! And Myth—Prince Siegfried will come and find me!”

“We'll see,” he mocked with a snort.

She tried to assert herself on a sobbing hiccup. “... _You'll_ see!”

Well, he had to give her credit for determination. Fakir smirked in the darkness before leaving her behind, satisfied that he could have very little to do with her from now on.

And then, _freedom_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Docktor Locktor


	4. Cantata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gears continued to grind. Harsh, incomprehensible whispers continuously filtered from the monster's lips. And the joyous, unnerving laughter rumbled. All at once, the noises assaulted and assailed, and the duckling curled up in her wings, shrinking away from the approaching reach of the shadows and the gloved hands and she was all alone.
> 
> But … there was one other sound. It was slight and barely-there, but constant, rhythmic, and swelling, almost desperately trying to be heard beneath the menacing cacophony.
> 
> Drums.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for waiting for this one! I hope you enjoy it, and please leave any comments, concerns, criticisms you may have! I'd love to know what you think, and every comment means so much to me! Thanks so much for continuing to be amazing readers!

Prince Siegfried sat up in his bedroll, his forehead resting in his hands.

The attack the night before devastated them. There was the issue of bringing the fallen back home when the greater half of their Pegasi had been stolen. And they were an entire day's distance away from the safety and peace of Vineta. In this state, they were defenseless and vulnerable. The sooner they prepared to fly again, the better.

But … moving on so soon after …?

Though the storm had passed, the rains continued, a dismal, gray shower over the remnants of their camp. Their lost men were laid out beneath one of their few tents left, hands folded over their chests, utterly still.

The prince's eyes fell on his crown beside him, his reflection staring back at him in the gold metal. He hardly recognized the weary man staring back at him, dark shadows beneath his eyes, his skin more pale than his usual fair.

He didn't know what came over him. There was little preparation; he gave the order and they simply left, leaving behind his kingdom in the middle of crucial dealings with Rungholt, his advisor unconscious and the castle in disarray.

And now, his loyal men—the ones who dropped everything to follow him in pursuit of his fiancee—were either injured or …

The prince stood, heavy and slow, leaving his crown as he trudged outside of his tent. He didn't bother to pull his hood over his head. Letting the sharp, frigid raindrops pelt his hair and face, he plodded through the mud toward the tent where his knights reposed. The camp was a disaster, with remnants of their tents shredded, the Pegasi restless in their makeshift stable, and blood intermingling with soaked earth.

The bodies of the intruders were piled together at the edge of the encampment, discarded without a second thought.

Prince Siegfried entered the neighboring tent. Inside, the air was rank, the scent of death thick and suffocating. Demetri and four others were on their knees, sobs wracking their forms, one of them sprawled out over the chest of his fallen comrade and clutching his hand. Five had died during battle, and two more succumbed to their wounds overnight.

The prince's eyes shut tightly, the burn of tears searing behind his eyelids. Casualties. Numbers. Was that what he was resorting to, now?

Prince Siegfried knew them all by name; he knew their families. Ignatius was an older gentleman, with an infant grandson. Tristram had a little sister who picked daisies in the gardens of Vineta, and a mother who doted on him even to adulthood. Sylvester left behind his sweet wife and twin sons who were barely thirteen years old. Mortimer, just a year older than the young Demetri, was newly engaged …

Prince Siegfried's fists clenched, knuckles turning white, a sharp pain twisting in his chest. Mortimer had a fiancee. In the prince's attempt to find his own, he'd—!

Lysander stood in the corner, his head bowed and visage crumpling with grief. There were so many questions—who those men were, how long they had been out there, if they would return—but no energy to consider them. This venture had cost them irreplaceable soldiers. Good men. Loyal friends. They weren't numbers. They weren't expendable.

The prince's heart felt like it was shattering in his chest. This was his fault.

Certainly, his feelings for Ahiru knew no bounds. It didn't matter that they'd known one another for little less than a day. She was a shining, warm beacon of hope, her blue eyes warm and inspiring, her smile bright and uplifting. The day before, he was certain to have done anything for her.

But never before had he put his own needs before those of his people until now. He was known to be a selfless prince by even his most vicious of critics.

He knew he acted rashly, but his heart cloyed at his entire being, pushing him to pursue only  _her_. He couldn't stop himself, even if he tried. He could only think of his love, and he'd forgotten all else

The prince was almost afraid; if someone had truly tried to fight him on his decisions and urge him to return home immediately, he likely would have drawn his sword against them. Even now, faced with the deaths of good men who had given their lives for a smidgen of a chance of finding Lady Ahiru, the prince wasn't sure if he was truly sorry.

Prince Siegfried's heart raced, blood running cold through his veins with heavy, steady, low thumps, echoing in his ears. It hurt. It  _hurt_.

The pain was inescapable—like excruciating talons ensnaring him and tugging him about uselessly, this way and that. The good of his men—his  _fiancee_ —they were dying around him—she was out there, without  _him_ —it was his own fault—but  _they_  failed to help him reach her—!

A warm, firm hand weighed down on his shoulder. Prince Siegfried glanced up, his discombobulating thoughts effectively silenced.

General Lysander, eyes weary and bloodshot, tightened his comforting hold on the prince's shoulder. "Your Highness—Mytho."

The familiarity of the nickname washed over the prince, soothing and warm against his shattered, cold heart. "I ..."

The wrinkles across the general's brow loosened, an anguished, yet patient smile spreading across his square jaw. It seemed that Lysander understood without Siegfried having to say anything at all.

They stepped outside and into the rain, quiet and somber. But there were things to discuss, and subjects that Siegfried didn't quite feel brave enough to face, yet which he held himself responsible.

Lysander spoke first. "... We cannot continue on this way, Your Highness." His tone was reverent as ever, but gruff from grief and left no room for argument. "Our supplies have been seized and ..."

"No one can go on like this," Siegfried agreed, finishing the general's thought for him. "Too many losses." Though his heart lurched in his chest, protesting almost wildly to this decision, his mind fought for some semblance of control over his strangely volatile emotions.

He strongly cared for his fiancee, but he was a prince, first and foremost.

… Why did his chest  _hurt_ so much? That sharp, tugging feeling persisted, but he swallowed it down and ignored the pain. He took a deep, composing breath, glancing upward and letting the soothing rain wash over his form as if to clear his thoughts. "We will gather ourselves and go home. When we return to Vineta, we  _will_ find out more about our attackers from last night. You have mapped our current location?"

"I have, Your Highness."

"Good." There was a moment of silence before the prince found his voice again. "We'll … need to bring home our men. All of them. They need to rest with their families."

Lysander nodded, brushing some dripping rainwater from his forehead, squinting through the water that clung to his eyelashes. "Aye, I've considered it already, Your Highness. With the remaining horses and manpower, we can perhaps build some wagon or cart from the surrounding trees—"

" _Just_ ," the prince interrupted, pausing and grimacing at the impatience that broke through. "... have it done. I …"

"... Of course. I-I apologize, Your Highness."

Siegfried shook his head, water dripping from his bangs. "No, do not be sorry, Lysander. That was insensitive of me."

Lysander shuffled his foot into the mud, awkwardly sniffing. "May I—uh, speak plainly, Your Highness?"

The prince nodded slowly, letting his gaze fall upon the general.

"You haven't been—I mean, pardon me, but you haven't been quite yourself, Your Highness. Has the Lady Ahiru so changed you? So quickly, I mean?"

There was hesitation for a moment, Siegfried's expression dismal and broken. Had she? Was she the reason for his changes? For the emotions he could barely contain or understand?

He found that he couldn't answer.

* * *

It was cold; the sky was black and foreboding, stretching out above the decrepit town, an expanse of shadow and despair. The grinding of gears and the clicking of cogs echoed between buildings and swept through every alleyway. There were no people.

But there was a little duckling at the base of the clock tower, quivering as the darkness grew thicker, encroaching in from beyond the walls that enclosed the town. She trembled, blue eyes seeking out any semblance of light or warmth as the shadows crept closer.

Then, the clock struck thirteen, and the rumbling, low bell was struck, the sound of it sudden and  _final_.

The duckling quacked, jerking away from the clock tower frantically. She flapped her wings, but she could not take flight no matter how she tried. So, she made haste to escape the frightening blackness, tears burning behind wide, fearful blue eyes.

The wheels kept turning, and the ticking sounds persisted as she ran as swiftly as her little, webbed feet allowed.

But in the distance, the darkness began to take shape, coalescing into a gargantuan shadow that threatened to devour  _everything_  in sight, covering the black sky entirely. The large silhouette of black, feathered wings blanketed the town, the long, imposing neck lined with sharp spines loomed right above the little duckling, and a terrifying, beak-like snout was accentuated by a deep, purple grin that exhaled smoke and fire.

Two slits opened in the horrific shadow—sharp, sinister eyes the color of blood.

With a tormented quack, the duck skidded to a stop and turned around, bolting the way she came and trying to propel herself faster with her wings—anything to escape the jaws of the monster.

Then, there was laughter; it was high, joyous, and ominous all at once.

The duck halted again. The monster was behind her, but in front, two disembodied, gloved hands reached out, fingers greedy and beckoning. And above them, framed in nothing but shadow, were two, large, swirling amber eyes, consuming, reading, and mirthful.

Gears continued to grind. Harsh, incomprehensible whispers continuously filtered from the monster's lips. And the joyous, unnerving laughter rumbled. All at once, the noises assaulted and assailed, and the duckling curled up in her wings, shrinking away from the approaching reach of the shadows and the gloved hands and  _she was all alone_.

But … there was one other sound. It was slight and barely-there, but constant, rhythmic, and swelling, almost desperately trying to be heard beneath the menacing cacophony.

Drums.

The duckling quacked, hope and faith fueling her as she made one last dash for safety. She followed the low, pounding beat, slipping into narrow alleyways, avoiding the pursuing darkness and the reaching hands. Though the other voices tried to drown it out, the duckling stubbornly clung to the rhythm, never letting herself lose it.

It grew louder. She was getting closer—!

And finally, the duckling fluttered between two tall buildings where there drums were the loudest. But as soon as she stepped into the shadowy alleyway, the rhythm ceased. And before her, a large, shuddering form was huddled in a corner. It had a long neck, like the monster in the sky, but its featherless wings were wrapped tightly around itself, its clawed hands tearing at its own scales.

Everything was silent. The monster in the sky no longer whispered. The eyes and hands no longer laughed. The clock stopped.

The duckling's heart dropped when the huddled monster opened its eyes, and roared.

Then, the clock's hands erratically spun. The drums exploded in her ears.

* * *

"QUA—!"

The incessant pounding of a drum persisted, even as Ahiru tumbled from the cot and onto the floor, landing painfully on her tailbone and her braided, red hair slapping her face.

Ahiru whimpered, sitting up and rubbing over her new bruises. This ground wasn't forgiving or soft by any means, unlike the carpet and plush rugs back home.

… Which only served to remind her that this was all real. The past two days seemed like a strange dream. She was finally with her prince, exploring Vineta and meeting the people, and then …

"Ohhhh! Duck-zura?"

"Eh?"

Ahiru blinked and looked up. That doll-like girl from the night before stood above her, sticks poised over her drum. Her eyes bore into Ahiru's, big and wide, and her eyebrows were furrowed inquisitively. "Duck is awake-zura!"

"I'm not a 'duck,'" the redhead mumbled, stumbling to her feet. What a strange little girl. She had to admit, though, that there was something about the little girl's presence that made her forget that she was being held captive against her will and was snatched up by a  _monster_  just yesterday. "You keep calling me that. I'm Ahiru. And you're … Uzura, right?"

"Ahiru is a duck-zura!" Uzura insisted, waving her sticks in the air. "You were sleeping and turning around and you were quacking-zura!"

Ahiru's shoulders slumped in defeat. That was right. She was having a strange nightmare, and in it, she was a duck. She shrugged it off. Maybe the stress and worries of these past couple of days were just affecting her.

The memories remained, however. That giant, feathered, dragon-like monster in the sky. Those reaching, greedy, gloved hands and the amber, swirling eyes. The whispers and the laughter.

With a shudder, Ahiru shook her head to push the images from her mind. She had to be thinking about what to do about her current predicament, not dawdle and dwell over a silly dream.

Ahiru took in her surroundings. It was still dark, but there was a glowing lantern sitting on the table that wasn't there the night before. How long was she asleep? Was it daytime already? It was difficult to even guess, considering she was so far underground. How did someone even live like this?

Uzura plopped down onto the cot, drumming idly and watching Ahiru with those curious eyes the entire time. With a sigh, the redhead stepped toward the lantern and the rest of the items on the table.

That was right. Late last night, before her exhaustion and grief finally caught up with her, her kidnapper,  _Fakir_ , dropped some things off, acting so high-and-mighty. She didn't see what they were until now.

There was a bundle of neatly folded brown cloth, and a bowl that held one potato, assorted berries, nuts, root vegetables, and what looked like dried meat. The very sight of it made Ahiru's stomach rumble eagerly. Part of her wanted to refuse to consume anything these people offered her, but her hunger was more noticeable now that she was more calm and had some time to process what was happening.

Shamefully, Ahiru picked up a sliver of sliced beet and nibbled. Her tentative tasting escalated quickly, however, and soon she was scarfing down two pieces at a time. After some nuts and berries, she picked up a piece of carrot while still chewing, devouring it all at once.

Then, she choked, leaning forward and coughing ridiculously. That was certainly unladylike, but she'd been so  _hungry_  and the vegetables were surprisingly fresh!

"Ohhh!" she heard Uzura coo, and the pitter-patter of little feet against stone ground. Suddenly, the little girl was beside her, holding a wooden cup and pitcher. Ahiru, still coughing, gratefully took the water and poured herself a cup, drinking greedily as soon as she could.

She downed the entire contents and placed the cup down, gasping for breath. When she finally composed herself, she turned to look down at Uzura.

… Who happened to still be staring at her. "U-Um ... thank you?"

At this, Uzura smiled, bright and giddy. "I was helpful-zura!" The little girl tiptoed and reached for the brown cloth on the table, pulled it off the edge, and offered it to Ahiru. "Here, here's some clothes, because Rue said that what you're wearing is 'in-de-sent'-zura!"

A blush spread across Ahiru's freckled cheeks when she realized that, indeed, she was still in her bloomers and bodice. She took the bundle from Uzura's tiny arms and let the cloth fall free of its neat fold. The dress was simple and common, with laces across the front and ruffled sleeves, nothing at all like the many layers Ahiru was so used to. Still, it would certainly cover more at this rate, and it looked comfortable. Probably more comfortable than her usual wear.

"Ahh," Ahiru began, her cheeks still tinged with red, "do you think you can go outside? So I can change?"

Uzura blinked, pouted, and turned on her heel, obediently giving Ahiru the privacy she desired. Now, without the little girl's presence, Ahiru would be able to turn her attention to more important things, like  _escape._

She took full advantage, using the water in the basin to freshen up. Without the tight bodice and with a proper covering over her underwear, Ahiru felt more confident and awake. Today, she would think of a way to get word out to Vineta and leave this dark, gloomy place!

Dressed, refreshed, and clean, Ahiru put on her most determined expression and laced up the front of the bodice. Yes, this was far more comfortable than the weighty, constricting one she was forced to sleep in last night. Though it was of lower quality, the fabric was softer and breathable. This would be easier to run in, should she need to make a break for it when she made her escape.

Her hand wandered to the pendant that rested above her breast, gathering strength from the red jewel.

"Are you done yet-zura?"

"Eh? Um, yeah!" Ahiru dusted herself off. "Why? Are you waiting for me for something?" It would be difficult to find a way to leave with Uzura trailing after her the entire time, but the girl seemed determined to remain nearby for some reason.

Uzura waddled in, drumming with every step. "Come and see on the upper ground-zura!" She pocketed her sticks and reached out to take Ahiru's hand. "Everyone's so happy-zura!"

Despite everything, Ahiru couldn't help but smile a little at Uzura's earnest tugging. She closed her fingers around her little hand and let the child lead her outside. Everyone was happy? Did it have something to do with Ahiru's presence down here? "I guess that's great, but … well, there's somewhere I have to be. Um. Would you happen to know the way out?"

The child kept pulling at her hand. The atmosphere of the town was unchanged. No one was around, and it was dim, with only the glow of the lampposts illuminating the decrepit streets. Still, Uzura led her along fearlessly and confidently toward the ladder that led to the higher level. That must've been the "upper ground" that Uzura spoke of. "Ohhh!" she murmured thoughtfully, bringing her free hand to her chin. Not once did she drop Ahiru's hand. "A way out-zura? Uzura never goes out 'cause they say I'm not allowed to-zura!"

Ahiru's jaw dropped in dismay as they stopped at the base of the ladder. "They don't let you out?! That's horrible!" She was about to go on, but lost her train of thought when  _music_ reached her ears, filtering down from above. "What—?" It was strange hearing something so melodic in a place like this, especially compared to the night before.

Uzura pocketed her drumsticks and shifted her little drum so it slung behind her. She was already scrambling up the ladder when Ahiru finally shook herself out of her reverie.

"H-Hey, Uzura! Be careful!" She followed after her, slowly and carefully taking it one step at a time.

The child reached the upper ground when Ahiru was only halfway there. She heard Uzura laugh delightedly, and then her ecstatic drumming.

When she reached the surface of the upper level, her head just barely poking out from the opening in the stone floor, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped again.

It was a celebration.

Unlike the level below them, dark, silent, and cold, it was as if this place was suddenly  _alive_. She attended a few ballroom galas growing up, accompanying her parents to various formal occasions—she often felt out of place and pressured, with the choreographed dances, extravagantly embroidered gowns, gossip and false smiles and flattery.

This was different. They were dressed similarly: common clothes, some with rips and stitches and patches, but their eyes shown earnest, absolute contentment. This must've been the entire population of the underground village, and there were so many  _beautiful_ faces dancing around one another, some joining hands and circling around those who held instruments, others clapping along in the sidelines. In the center, a bespectacled man sat on a stool and played a dusty, wooden piano, flanked by others with antique string instruments, playing an uplifting, celebratory, and yet  _mysterious_  song. Uzura stood by him, drumming away and giggling as the beautiful people danced about her.

Ahiru blushed. It was as if they were all  _floating_  on their feet in elegant, surreal movements, lifting themselves to the tips of their toes. Balletic, and breathtaking.

There were three women in particular who garnered the most attention. A sweet-faced, tall girl, with bobbed, curly brown hair danced in the back, smiling thoughtfully and watching the others, as if studying—no,  _appreciating_  them from where she was. Another had flowers in her full, long golden hair, and she danced with a basket of petals, joyfully scattering them about and twirling with a peaceful expression.

Then, there was the woman from the night before. Rue. And Ahiru could hardly take her eyes off of her when she spotted her. Her thick, dark hair was piled into a bun, and she was ethereal in her grace, and magical with her presence. With every twirl and arch and leap, it was as if Rue demanded your attention just by her gestures alone. Even the piano player, who was so engrossed in his music, took the time to glance over his shoulder to watch her. Ahiru thought Rue looked like a real princess.

There were others: a woman with a long face, pouting at the three dancers; a young lady adjusting her glasses and clutching at what appeared to be a pad of paper, admiring Rue's dance; so many people, and all of them must've been the villagers.

What sort of life did they lead down here? And why was Ahiru brought down here with them?

As she continued watching the scene from her little hiding spot, she scanned her surroundings. Maybe if they were really busy, she would be able to make a break for that weird entrance from before!

Then, her gaze landed on a familiar face. Her kidnapper, Fakir, was leaning his back against one of the stone huts, his arms crossed over his chest. Though everyone else seemed to be smiling, it looked as if  _nothing_  was capable of making him happy. His lips were pressed into a grim line, but at least his thick, scary eyebrows weren't furrowed in disdain this time. She rolled her eyes at the thought. Even now, he still looked like a big jerk.

… And as if Fakir  _knew_  someone was staring at him, his stare was suddenly directed at Ahiru.

The redhead's heart jumped at the unexpected glance. She squawked in panic, almost toppling right down from the ladder before she caught the edge of the opening, and lurched herself clumsily onto the deck of the upper ground to save herself.

Her heart raced from the adrenaline, and slowly, she began to realize that it was suddenly eerily silent. Ahiru gulped and glanced up.

The music and revelry ceased, and the entire village stared at her. Her stomach dropped at the realization that her chances of escaping now have shattered pathetically before her very eyes. "Um—!"

She felt small and vulnerable under their collective gaze. Some of them seemed suspicious, some looked as if they would fall into tears, while others smirked at her with a strange, proud _triumph_  that she couldn't possibly fathom. There were so many faces …

Everyone seemed frozen in their spots, until Uzura (who seemed to be the youngest in the entire village) scampered up to Ahiru, urging her to stand. "Ohhh! You fell-zura!"

Ahiru stood on shaky legs, one hand wringing the fabric of her new dress and the other clutching her pendant. She faced the villagers and tried not to shrink away from their piercing gazes. She found Rue in the crowd, who gave her an arresting smirk. Then, she found Fakir. His expression was utterly neutral, and his green eyes unnerving as ever. After a moment, he stepped forward and parted from the crowd, opening his mouth to say something.

Before he could do so, someone else had beaten him to it. Striding forward with a cool, self-assured air, was a tall man with short hair the color of crows feathers and deep, blood-red eyes that somehow chilled her. The man was older—perhaps he was a couple of years shy of thirty. He wore a smirk, as if trying to appear amiable, but seemed untouchable at the same time. On instinct, Ahiru shrunk away, unnerved by his penetrating stare and his vastly superior, looming height.

His smile seemed to widen with her reaction. She didn't know if it was to sooth her, or if it was because he was pleased to see her visible discomfort. "Good morning, Miss Ahiru," he uttered, his voice like velvet, but likewise cold. She didn't quite know what to make of it. "I hope your evening was restful. I am Raven, the Elder of Wyvern Village."

Ahiru found that she was having difficulty articulating how she felt. She remained silent, wringing one hand into her skirt while she gripped her pendant with the other.

Raven's sharp eyes seemed to catch the movement. His smirk widened a bit. "Ah, yes, such a pretty gem, that is. Vibrant and enduring."

She was stricken by his strange interest in her family heirloom. And when she thought about it, hadn't Fakir and Rue taken a fascination to it as well? Upon glancing behind him at the villagers (who were still  _staring_  at her like that), she realized that her pendant had garnered their focused attention. "I … my mother gave it to me." Taking a deep breath, Ahiru mustered her courage and hardened her gaze, staring at Raven defiantly and trying not to cower under his stare again. "So you all can't have it, if that's what you're after!"

Raven only simpered, and there were a few scattered chuckles among the people behind him. Ahiru was incensed, and stomped her foot against the stone ground. "I mean it! It isn't yours! So if that's why I'm here, you can just forget about it and send me home!"

Some of the snickering escalated into full-blown laughter. Her cheeks grew hot, confusion, frustration, and embarrassment welling up in her chest.

Raven turned to face the villagers, stepping back so he stood beside Ahiru. "Behold!" he announced, presenting the redhead with a flourish of his arm. "Our savior!"

"... Eh?!"

That was the last thing she was expecting.

They seemed to react, strongly or otherwise. Some seemed uncertain still, but others embraced it, smiling gently or coolly smirking in her direction. A few even fell to their knees in tears, or drew one another into embraces. Rue brought a hand to her heart and looked down, a soft smile on her face. Uzura was the only one who looked just as confused as Ahiru.

Then, there was Fakir, who seemed to be glaring fiercely at Raven.

Ahiru was completely, undeniably confused. "S-Savior? I don't know if I—!"

Raven cut her off, throwing his arms out and bowing to her as the others continued celebrating. "Miss Ahiru. You  _are_ our savior. You will be the one to draw us out from the darkness and live in the light once more." The Elder reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder in what seemed to be an attempt at comfort. She flinched away from the startlingly cold touch.

Fakir stepped forward, his expression severe and his arms crossed over his chest. "Don't sugarcoat it," he asserted, effectively silencing those around him and commanding everyone's attention. "We already have her prisoner. There's no point in misleading her, too."

Ahiru glanced between them anxiously, noting the sudden narrowing of Raven's red eyes. The Elder left her side, striding right up to Fakir. Now that they were in front of one another, Ahiru saw that they were evenly matched in height, Fakir's sneer set against the Elder's calculating smirk. "Now, now, Fakir, you cannot deny that she will be the one to save us all." Raven turned a bit to smile at the redhead. Once again, she shrunk away, feeling lost. "There's no need for abrasive behavior. We shouldn't frighten her."

Fakir's scowl deepened. "We shouldn't  _romanticize_ her sacrifice, either."

Suddenly, Ahiru felt her stomach drop. One moment, she was a prisoner, then a savior, and now she was sacrificing something? She watched them, pitifully trying to gather her wits about her to interject. There was simply too much information to process. "W-What sacri—? I—!"

Raven's words overcame her own once more, and it looked like his lip twitched in its frozen smile with his next words, his eyes meeting Fakir's directly. "You said yourself that your part in this was done—and Fakir, you have done  _well_. Thanks to your efforts, the prophecy will come to fruition. Leave the rest to me."

At this, Rue interjected, her expression more soft and almost hesitant (and that, in itself, surprised Ahiru, who had only seen her confident and proud up until then). "Elder, perhaps Fakir is—"

" _Rue_. I said, leave the rest to me. I am your Elder, am I not?"

"Of course, Elder, but she will be—"

Raven's eyes narrowed at Rue, his smile revealing his teeth. Ahiru shivered. "Do you defy me? The one who has cared for you? Have I ever led you— _any_ of us," he paused to gesture to the village in its entirety, "astray?"

All remained silent.

"... No, Elder. I apologize." Rue bowed her head, her pale cheeks reddening with shame.

"As you should. You know your place, Rue, so remain there."

Fakir growled under his breath. "Dammit, Rue, stop letting him—!"

"But he is  _right_ , Fakir." She turned her chin up, that cool, proud poise taking hold once more. The change was drastic. "Elder Raven led us this far. Because of all he has done for us, we owe him our respect. He knows better."

Ahiru couldn't take it anymore. She clenched her fists and stomped her foot, her face red from the building aggravation, the words pouring from her lips in a rush. "I'm right  _here_! Stop acting like I can't hear any of this! I don't wanna be a captive! I don't wanna be some savior! I deserve some answers, but no one is giving them to me, and  _I just wanna go home to Mytho_!"

She was met with silence, all eyes on her. Panting for breath, she gripped her pendant again. She needed strength now more than ever. "So, please … can't I just go home?! Or someone please tell me why I can't!"

Before anyone else could say anything, so stunned as they were with Ahiru's passionate outburst, Fakir approached her with long strides. He stopped a mere foot away, staring down at her, his words curt and direct.

"Here's how it is: you aren't leaving. In two months' time, we have a chance to break the curse that was placed on our village and everyone in it. In order to do so, we need you."

There was a curse? Was the curse the reason why this place was underground? And what in the world would they need her for? Ahiru couldn't breathe for a moment, and all else were silent aside from Fakir.

"You're going to die down here. You've got two months. Sorry."

Her blood ran cold.

With that, he turned on his heel and left, shoving past Elder Raven before he pushed his way through the silent crowd and disappeared into the darkness of the village.

They all watched her for her reaction, but for once, Ahiru took no notice.

Her legs felt like liquid beneath her. Knees buckling, she crumpled to the ground, her heart pounding in her chest; it felt as if there was a heavy, cold, dead weight pressed down on her shoulders. She wasn't being held for ransom. She was being kept there, because in two months, they were going to—! She was going to—!

There was a collective murmur among the crowd, but Ahiru paid no mind, far too lost in her own, scrambled thoughts. She didn't even look up when the tall, brown-haired dancer was suddenly at her side, holding her shoulders. "E-Everyone," the woman said, her voice soft and hesitant, her hand waving almost awkwardly back and forth, "please leave her be for now—if that's alright! She's distraught!"

Rue scoffed. "Elder, you were right. Fakir never should have questioned you, and neither should I."

"Indeed," Raven mused in agreement. "And Hermia is correct. Miss Ahiru needs a moment for herself. Come, there is much to be done."

Noises filtered about: the shuffling of feet, the heavy, rolling sound of a wooden piano being pushed away, the hushed, fervent whispers …

The tall young woman reached out to help Ahiru stand. She didn't want to lean into the support, but found that she had little choice, and allowed herself to be steered away from the crowd, little Uzura following after.

"I-I'm sorry, Miss Ahiru! I  _know_  what you must be feeling. Let's get you back to your hut and you can rest for a while."

For all of the woman's oddly earnest counsel, Ahiru still wasn't paying attention.

Her hands grasped at her pendant, her knuckles white.

* * *

Karon awoke with a wince, his head throbbing. He felt the cool press of soft fabric against his forehead, and he blinked his eyes open.

Though she was blurred, he recognized the hazy silhouette of the head maid, Raetsel. Through his onset confusion, he smiled, his crows' feet crinkling. "Ahh … Miss Raetsel. Good morning. My, have I come down with a fever?"

As he blinked the sleep away and attempted to ignore the pain of his pounding head, his expression sobered upon finally focusing on hers.

There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and she appeared less kempt than usual, her hair falling out of her typically pristine ponytail and elegant, long bangs, her complexion pale and worrisome. He had never seen the woman look so weary.

It certainly didn't help that he hardly remembered how he got there in the first place. He tried to sit up, wincing as he did so.

She reached out to stop him and tried to coax him back into the pillows. "No, Karon, you must rest."

"I … How did I even get here?" He paused, accepting the drink of water she offered to him. Karon hadn't realized how parched he must've been. How long was he asleep? "And is … something the matter? You seem troubled." Even through the incessant dizziness, he had the strangest feeling he was missing something important.

Raetsel gave him a forced smile. "Please, lie back. Don't worry. You've suffered a blow to the head and you need time to recover."

"A blow to the—?"

Wait. That was right. The Lady Ahiru had arrived, and then there was a tour about the town. There was fire, and His Highness left to see to the flames, while Lady Ahiru had been left with—!

He groaned, once more trying to sit up. "We were attacked. Lady Ahiru. Is she—? And His Highness, does he know—?"

At first, the maid bowed her head, hesitating. "... The Lady Ahiru has been taken, and His Highness—Mytho went to search for her himself."

It didn't matter how injured he was or how much Raetsel insisted that he rested. He was royal advisor and attendant to His Royal Highness Prince Siegfried. In the absence of the prince, he was responsible for the well-being of Vineta. There was no rest to be had; if he remained a second longer in that bed, he would come to  _regret_  that.

He pushed himself to drink and eat, but as soon as he found his strength and his balance, he was on his feet, washing up and donning his usual embroidered coat fit for the right-hand of the prince, not minding that his head was still bandaged from the injury he'd sustained.

The first thing he did upon reaching His Highness's study was inquire from the councilmen what instructions Prince Siegfried had left behind before his departure.

They only replied with disgruntlement and slight panic, for the prince had left them with  _nothing_.

Karon's eyebrows furrowed in confusion and dismay. That was purely unlike the prince to behave so rashly.

One of the councilmen, scowling and bitter, interjected his opinion fervently. "Surely, His Highness should have given us some sort of order regarding Rungholt's demands! It has been  _months_ since we have received word from them, and still, we have nothing with which to counter! His Highness is irresponsible and we look  _pitiful_  in the eyes of Rungholt! And he  _leaves_  us to chase after a young woman he'd known only for a day!"

Karon winced. It was true. Rungholt had made their demands a while ago, and Prince Siegfried couldn't seem to come to a decision regarding this neighboring land. An alliance wasn't something the prince wanted to consider (a land with such a society that heavily relied on the use of slavery and extreme classism held very little worth to someone as righteous as His Highness). However, Rungholt was powerful. Exceedingly and almost  _unnaturally_  so. And war was just as distasteful as friendly association.

Prince Siegfried was just, kind, selfless, and humble. But he was also trapped in an endless battle, and it felt as if he could only win by sacrificing his own morals as well.

The councilmen were not as forgiving or understanding as Karon was. They agreed with anxiety and aggravation, and Karon sat at the head of the table, at a loss, his head still aching.

For three months, Prince Siegfried continued to sit on a decision. And now that Lady Ahiru had been spirited away and His Highness took flight after her, they were left hanging in a precarious balance. Would they have to merely … wait?

That was when a knight in full plate burst through the heavy, wooden doors, his armor clanking noisily as he panted. "K-Karon, sir!"

Oh, what  _now_? The royal advisor stood from his seat, rubbing his temples. "What is it, Sir Elias?"

"The town gates. You're going to want to see what's going on out there! A parade! A large caravan with music and—!"

The councilmen murmured amongst themselves as Karon shook his head. "We didn't sanction for a grand parade to take place in town, but if they aren't causing harm, leave the citizens be. Shut it down if they are disturbing the peace. You don't need me to—"

But the knight shook his head, taking off his helmet. "No, Karon, sir! They bear the Rungholtan colors!"

Karon's heart dropped and the councilmen fell into stunned silence. "I-Is it an army?"

"No, no signs of hostility. If anything, this is more revelry and celebration than I have ever seen in years!"

"... That means—!"

"Prince Femio of Rungholt is  _here_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Docktor Locktor


	5. Polyrhythm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fakir reared back and sent his fist flying into Autor's cheek, knuckles colliding with his face in a harsh crack and sending the glasses into the air for the second time that day.
> 
> And for a long, suspended moment, everyone froze. Even Ahiru couldn't breathe as the weight of everything pushed down upon her.
> 
> She heard Rue breathlessly and uneasily mutter, "Fakir, no …"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please leave any comments, criticisms, or concerns you may have! Any feedback is appreciated! Thanks so much for reading!

The meager flame from the lantern flickered off the stone walls. Ahiru had her knees up to her chest, her pendant nestled tightly in the cradle of her palms.

The brunette dancer sat beside her, the tall woman poised with her hands folded in her lap. There was something warm about her in the way Hermia gently guided the redhead back to her hut, her shy and gentle eyes empathetic and understanding. However, Ahiru forced herself not to trust her, no matter how tempting it was.

Uzura, on the other hand, paced up and down the floor, a spark of energy and enthusiasm in the dim quiet. "Ducky-ducky-ducky-ducky-zura!" she chanted as her shadows danced along the walls, the light tip-tap of her drum echoing in the silence.

"I  _do_  know how you feel," Hermia said over Uzura's rhythmic pounding, her fingers twitching as if she didn't know whether or not to reach out. Instead, she rested them over her own heart earnestly. "Even if you don't believe me. But of course I won't push you into feeling better right away! I—well, I understand! Ah—is there anything you need?"

Ahiru lifted her troubled gaze, her hands still wrapped around the red jewel. Hermia had been the kindest to her by far (aside from Uzura, but the child seemed to be just as aware of everything as Ahiru herself). Fakir had been rude and harsh from the very beginning, Rue was icy in her politeness, and Raven, the elder, completely unsettled her.

There was an entire community of people—at least one of them being a monster—who wanted her dead. Hermia was her only chance (even if it was mind-boggling that she could be so kind and still go along with this crazy sacrifice, too). "The one who … the one who kidnapped me. The one who brought me here …?"

"Fakir?" Hermia was gentle with her coaxing.

"Mm. Fakir." Ahiru inhaled deeply, her breath quivering between her lips. "What he said before, about me having to—in two months—?"

Hermia's eyes drifted away, her expression falling as they both watched Uzura joyously dance back and forth across the ground, amusing herself as children were wont to do. "I wish there was another way. But you see, we've been waiting so long. It's a shame, though. You seem—" Hermia trailed off for a moment, wringing her hands in her lap anxiously. "— _different_  than what we expected."

Ahiru stopped listening. Instead, she buried her face in her arms and her knees, biting her lip. A shame? Wishing there was another way? Different than what they expected? Just exactly  _what_ were they expecting when they took her here? And how were those words supposed to make her feel any better?

She was scared. Frightened. And she really wanted to go home.

Ahiru was willing to do anything at this point. She would learn to be a good princess—she would learn to be the  _right_  sort of woman to be queen! She would keep track of all of the country's problems instead of enjoying what life had given her. She would give more, and take less, and be the best and most proper lady she could be at all times. Every day, she would make sure that her curtsy was perfect, and that she could balance in her heeled slippers, and that she would never forget which fork to use first and she would never stumble or stutter over her words again. She could learn to be  _worthy_ of her prince, if only given the chance!

Why  _her_?

It was only when Hermia's hand rested upon her quivering shoulder that she realized she began to sob, curling up into a blubbering mess in the middle of her hut. Even Uzura paused in her step and scampered over, placing her tiny hands on Ahiru's lap as if to placate her. "... Duck-zura?"

Ahiru didn't even look up, even as Hermia's expression twisted in anguish. "... I-I am so sorry," she whispered, bowing her head, her brown curls bobbing with the movement, "I feel it; the pain and the fear … I feel everything. I wish there was something I could—"

When Ahiru still hadn't responded, entwining herself in her own arms and attempting to shield herself from everything, Hermia pulled away. "... There  _is_  something I can do for you. Let me speak with Elder Raven! I'm sure he'll understand, and maybe it will ease you somewhat! Uzura, come along! You can help!"

There was a light squeeze to her shoulder before footsteps echoed across the ground, and Ahiru was finally, blessedly alone. At the moment, she didn't care what Hermia might've had in mind to help. She didn't want to be eased. She wanted to escape from this place and whatever sacrifice they were making out of her.

It was all just too much. To think, just a couple of days ago, she was preparing to meet her fiance, afraid that she wouldn't be a good enough princess or queen. And now …

Mytho was probably more worried than ever. These people planned to keep her for the next two months, and then she would be …

He would never find out. Pique and Lilie would always wonder what happened to her. She would never see the majesty of Vineta again, with its crystalline lake and smiling citizens. She would never breathe in the salty-sweet coastal air of her home, Hedeby, the cool, foamy waves licking at her bare toes.

To think, her mother wanted her to have a  _happy_  ending.

Ahiru's eyes opened and she lifted her head from her folded arms, her tearful gaze drifting and landing upon the light glow of the lantern on the table. Quiet and calm, warm and gentle. Everything her mother was, everything she wanted to become.

… She didn't know what curse they were talking about, but it couldn't have been that bad that she had to die, right? She couldn't  _let_  herself be snuffed out just like that, here in the darkness …

Maybe these people were wrong. Maybe they could find some other way.

Ahiru reached for the pendant around her neck. So stubborn, she was, when they took such a vital interest in the little, red jewel. It was her mother's keepsake, and she was told to always protect it. But … maybe they could break whatever curse they were talking about with it alone, and then she wouldn't have had to die in the first place.

It was the only bit of hope she could grasp. The thought of leaving it behind made her heart ache and her soul weaken, but wouldn't her mother want something different for her than this fate?

Her reasoning was sound, wasn't it? What curse could be so terrible that they needed  _her_ , some silly duchess-girl from Hedeby with a pretty jewel, to die?

Not knowing what to think and not knowing what was right, she reached up around the back of her neck and unclasped the pendant for the first time in a long, long while. The familiar weight left her collarbone, and she suddenly felt cold and naked without it.

With trembling hands and quivering legs, she stumbled to the table and placed the gem and chain onto the surface, the smooth, crimson surface almost glowing in the lamplight.

Just like that, she gathered her skirt and left the jewel had been her source of strength for most of her life behind in the darkness.

Ahiru knew she had to be quick and quiet. When she pushed back the cloth that covered the threshold of the stone hut, she poked her head out to glance at her immediate surroundings. There was a villager here and there, but they were scattered enough to get by, or so she'd hoped. Perhaps most of them were still up above on the upper ground.

When it appeared that the villagers nearby were looking away and a couple of them had retreated into their own huts, Ahiru took a muted step out onto the cobblestone, and then darted quickly behind the small structure's wall. She tried to ignore the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears and focused solely on making a silent escape.

The shadows were helping to conceal her, and she was glad for the town's inherent darkness. Her hut was decently away from the nearest lamppost, thankfully, but she had enough visibility herself to see where she was going.

Good. Hopefully her luck would keep up!

In the near distance, she could see the ladder that led up to the upper ground. No one seemed to be around, and as soon as she was satisfied, she took a deep breath, holding it for a moment.

She broke into a wild sprint, disregarding all sense of propriety as her arms flailed off to the side with her movement. Her eyes were dead-set on the ladder, concentrated only on her goal.

Her fingers found one of the wooden rungs and clenched around it, hoisting her lithe body upwards as she made a mad scramble to ascend. It was only when she reached the vertical tunnel around the ladder that she paused to catch her breath, clinging around the wood with white knuckles. Halfway there. No going back!

Finally, she continued her way up, poking her head out from the opening as she'd done just a bit ago to spy on the town's festivities. This time, there was no music, no instruments. People were scattered about, the piano long-since wheeled away and most of the villagers busying themselves with clean-up or other such chores.

It would've almost seemed normal—like a regular village, with bustling people hard at work, with baskets of vegetables and clothes—if not for the bleak darkness and their calm, quiet expressions. Everyone seemed so reserved, she thought, for the entire population to have such a "savior" in captivity. They were emotional and some were even driven to tears earlier. Now, they were so composed.

… This wasn't the time to think on this. She had to find her way out.

Ahiru thought she could remember the general direction of the exit. And if she couldn't recall it perfectly, then she could just scale the edges of the upperground until she came upon that large, wooden barrier with the dragon insignia scrawled upon it. The hard part was actually getting there without being spotted, particularly when all of the villagers were still out and about. She had half a mind to return to the hut and remain there until they were all asleep (as she'd remembered just how barren and  _empty_  the place was at night), but what if her courage ran out before then?

She felt so silly. She already made it this far! Why would she turn back now?

Then again, if she was just a little more patient for the evening to come, it would take her far less time and it was likewise much less risky ...

Ahiru half-grumbled and half-whined to herself, one hand still holding her steady on the ladder as the other reached up to tousle her own hair in frustration. Once again, she was letting her impulsiveness drive her, when it would've been much simpler if she had just—!

"... What are you doing."

" _Kyah_ —!" Ahiru almost let herself plummet (honestly, this ladder was just so dangerous!), but she recovered as quickly as she could, securing herself against the wooden rungs as she whipped her head around to face the person who spoke, blinking. "Eh?"

Wearing a deep frown and a suspicious stare was the bespectacled man who played the piano earlier, his eyes accusing from behind the glass. Up close, it was a strange sight to see a man dressed in the shabby, ripped cloth that everyone here wore, yet his glasses were in absolute perfect condition, and his purple hair was slicked back so neatly. "I said, what are you doing?" he repeated with a raised eyebrow.

Well, so much for not being seen. Ahiru pouted up at him. While Fakir had been quite rude from the very beginning,  _this_  particular man seemed to judge her, his intonation and expression making her feel as though he was talking down to her.

… He was, literally, but that was beside the point. The redhead clambered up to the surface, and then stood at her full height in front of him. He wasn't as tall as Fakir, but he still seemed to stare down his nose at her, chin up, the glare of his glasses reflecting into her eyes. She squinted and crossed her arms. "None of your business!" she replied.

Adjusting his glasses, he took a moment to study her. She hoped that the redness in her eyes from her crying earlier had disappeared. Hermia made her feel comfortable enough to sob out her troubles, but she wasn't about to start wailing in front of this one.

Then, as if coming to his own conclusions, he gave her a simpering stare and stepped past her. "If you're looking for the way out, why don't you just let me to show you?"

Ahiru blinked up at him, her jaw falling slack. "E-Eh?"

"Come on," he continued casually, his shoulders shrugging, "It's this way, if you don't remember."

At a loss, she glanced around to see if he might've been talking to someone else. When she finally decided to follow, he was a good few strides away from her already. She scrambled to catch up, her eyebrows furrowing.

He wasn't really serious, was he? He was just  _showing_  her out? Ahiru wasn't buying it.

But she followed anyway, her curiosity getting the better of her. Besides, if she remembered correctly, this  _was_  the way back to the doorway Fakir led her through just yesterday.

Avoiding the stares from the other, whispering villagers as they marched down the lamplit, cobblestone streets, she kept her head down until he finally stopped. "This was what you were looking for, wasn't it?"

Ahiru's eyes widened. Yes, this  _was_  the opening. But it was sealed shut, just as it was before Fakir opened it with the palm of his hand. She took a few wary steps forward, reaching out to press her fingertips against the solid wood, tracing the lines embedded in the surface. The dragon insignia wasn't on this side—or, if it was, it just wasn't visible right now. Worrying at her lip, she gave an experimental push with both of her hands, and then with her shoulder. As dread began to seize her, she stepped away and reeled her leg back, swinging it forward in a wave of her skirt as she gave a very unladylike kick to the wood. But the impact instead sent a shock of sharp pain up from her toe all the way to her hip, and she pulled away, hopping on her other foot. "Ow—!"

Behind her, the man adjusted his glasses and snorted. "What, did you think we would just leave you to your own devices if it was  _that_  simple for you to leave?  _Please_!"

Unbidden, Ahiru felt the tears of frustration prickle at her eyes, cold dread welling up in her chest. She dropped her leg when the pain ebbed away, her lip beginning to tremble as realization creeped in. "Y-You—why didn't you just tell me it was all closed up instead of bringing me over here?!" Fakir was rude, Rue was cold, and the Elder was unnerving, but this man was just …  _mean_.

He smirked again, shrugging. "Well, certainly you would've wanted to find out for yourself! Don't cry over it. You couldn't have  _really_  thought it would be that easy."

… No, she didn't think it would've been that easy. But it was all that she had. It was all crumbling away, disappearing like dust in the wind right before her very eyes. All of that building adrenaline and hope that swelled within her back in the hut—thoughts of Mytho, of her friends, of her mother—deflated and left her crumpling to the ground in front of the sealed doorway.

Then, he just had to speak again. "And before you ask, no, there is no other way up."

Ahiru bit her lip, funneling her despair into one petulant act of defiance. She removed one of her slippers from her foot and flung it in the man's direction.

"Hey— _gah_!" Though it did nothing to assuage the ache of disappointment and growing alarm she felt, watching him take her shoe to his face, knocking the glasses right off his nose to land on the ground, was satisfying to the selfish, childish part of her. "You—that was absolutely  _unnecessary_ —!"

"Ah … Autor …?"

The man paused and squinted at the newcomer, Ahiru likewise turning to see who'd arrived. It was one of the villagers from that morning, with the short, teal-green hair and gray-blue eyes, likewise wearing glasses and still holding that sketchbook. Shyly, the small girl stepped forward and delicately plucked Autor's spectacles from the cobblestone, offering it to him without meeting his unfocused gaze.

He cleared his throat, taking the glasses from her. "Thank you, Malen. Hmph." He pulled a bit of cloth from his pocket and polished the lenses before donning them once more. "Now, what is it?"

The girl glanced over to Ahiru, who was still on the ground with a missing slipper, looking like she was on the verge of crying. Almost immediately, Malen dropped her gaze, as if unable to meet her eyes with anyone's. "Ah … Elder and Miss Hermia are looking for you."

"What for?" the man, Autor, asked, his hand on his hip as he pocketed the cleaning cloth.

"They only told me to come get you … so I don't know, really."

He sighed with exasperation, then turned his attention back to Ahiru. By now, the redhead was ignoring them, trying to focus on maintaining her quickly-diminishing composure. "I guess you're free to look around or whatnot, considering there's nowhere else for you to go. Just stay away from the edges and  _don't_  touch any of our valuables." With a huff, he turned on his heel and walked off, likely to meet with Raven and Hermia.

Malen lingered but for a moment, staring over her shoulder for one last look at Ahiru and clutching her sketchbook to her chest, before following after Autor.

Once again, Ahiru was alone, but this time, she had no hope to cling to. She was cold and naked without the jewel around her neck, and she felt like she was sinking deeper into despair with every passing second.

Ever since her kidnapping, she thought she had a plan. She had to escape. She had to send word to Vineta. She couldn't just expect to be saved—she had to help herself, too.

But they had taken that opportunity away from her. They had taken  _every_  opportunity away from her.

She buried her face in her hands.

* * *

Karon's head was throbbing something  _fierce_. Not even the tea he brought to his lips could soothe him. He tried to mask the growing aggravation he felt from behind the lip of the teacup, his eyes glancing across the ornate table to the royal visitor on the other couch.

Prince Femio arrived earlier that afternoon at the town's gates, accompanied by a grand procession. Two (strangely well-behaved) bulls wearing rose crowns around their horns pulled his gold and jewel-encrusted carriage, flanked by trumpeters, lute-players and drummers. Other wagons in his caravan bore servants ( _slaves_ , Karon amended with inward disgust) and trunks full of lavish belongings and personal effects. The colorfully-dressed minstrels and musicians sang, danced and juggled alongside his guard, the knights donned in exquisite full-plate and regalia and proudly mounted on their horses. Streamers and roses were scattered every which way, leaving long trails of vibrant paper and petals in the wake of the spectacle along the cobblestone road.

The banners of the ruling house of Rungholt—royal purple with red roses framing a noble bull—fluttered in the fresh Vinetian breeze. The people were enthralled, cheering as the merrymaking parade announced Prince Femio's arrival. There were whispers through town: these must've been peace negotiations; no war would come to them now; Prince Siegfried had succeeded in keeping everyone's happiness!

Karon pinched the bridge of his nose. It couldn't have been worse.

The procession approached the glittering lake and the bridge that crossed it to the Grand Chateau. The trail of paper and petals followed them the entire length of the march, and Karon  _knew_ that he would have to sanction the clean-up of the entire town himself. As royal advisor to his absent prince, he had to be the one to greet Prince Femio of Rungholt personally, so he stood at the entrance of the Chateau with several other councilmen and knights to receive them.

The royal carriage pulled to a stop, the bulls exhaling heavily and shaking roses from their horns. The valet,dressed in pink and gold with a yellow cape, dropped the reins and hopped off of his bench. Karon did take notice that the inner lining of the valet's cloak was a deep red and he was dressed like a bullfighter. Strange that they would choose those creatures to lead Prince Femio's carriage, but bullfighting had been a common pastime in Rungholt, he'd heard. There were stranger things in this world, and far more important, more pressing matters to think about.

Now in position with his hand poised on the carriage door, the valet bowed his head, scattered roses to the ground and wind, and opened it. Prince Femio, with passionate eyes of lavender and flowing hair of plum, dramatically threw his hand into the air in a deep, greeting bow through the flurry of petals, the stem of a rose tucked between his lips and teeth.

Now, as they sat in the drawing room, Karon mentally corrected himself. It  _could_  get worse.

The Rungholtan prince lounged across the chaise, nibbling happily on a cream pastry while his four advisors and his valet, Montand, stood stark-still by the wall beside them, Vinetian guards on the opposite end. "My, my what a quaint little room this is!" he sighed, his speech accented thickly with the elongated syllables of his native region. He arched against the chaise and whimpered longingly, almost rolling back so his head lolled off the side of the armrest. "It is charming in its simplicity, but alas, my muscles ache from travel and my poor heart is weary—air, please, Montand, I must have air~!" He flung the remaining half of his pastry over his head as he swooned, and it slapped against the wallpaper across the room, sliding down sloppily.

Montand was by the prince's side in an instant, pulling a paper fan from his hip and obeying. "Of course, Your Highness!" Montand was rather firm-faced, and quite formal in his address, Karon noticed.

For the young prince to feel faint from the apparent heat of the "quaint" room was preposterous, considering how finely decorated and spacious their royal drawing room was. Then again, Prince Femio was wearing layers upon layers of fine velvet and lace. Karon's eyebrow twitched and he put his teacup down onto the table between them.

Indeed, the Prince of Rungholt proved to be just as ludicrously  _silly_  as the rumors said. He all but danced through the halls, his valet scattering petals after every step. Each sentence Prince Femio spoke was accentuated by a flourish or pose, his chest puffed out and eyes glittering. He was as young as Prince Siegfried, but behaved like a  _child_. At least, until Raetsel, Pique, and Lilie came in, wheeling the tea, sandwiches, and sweets into the drawing room—immediately, he'd taken to his knee and held roses out to them, his hand poised over his heart as he lamented that he could not possibly love just one of them, for his heart belonged to  _all women_.

The ladies tittered nervously and promptly excused themselves (or frantically retreated—in this case, it would be the same thing).

How that country had become so powerful under the rule of such a spoiled, deluded boy, Karon would never come to understand.

Finally, Prince Femio seemed to recover from his mild fainting spell, and Karon took the opportunity to speak. "I … I hope that the room feels more comfortable, Your Highness." He cleared his throat. "If I may, I don't believe we received due news of your … visit. We have not prepared any such welcoming balls or gatherings." It would have been customary for Prince Siegfried to welcome his guests in some way, but circumstances hadn't been in their favor these past few days.

"Non, non~!" Prince Femio sang, his long, delicate finger waving back and forth in correction, "'Tis a surprise, indeed, but we've been patiently waiting for … ah, what was it now?" He paused with a slight frown, turning toward Montand. The valet leaned in and whispered something into his ear. "Ah, yes! A response! We have been eagerly waiting for Prince Siegfried's response and—oh my, shouldn't he be  _here_  to greet me?" His frown morphed into a pout.

Karon's jaw clenched and his palms began to sweat. "Unfortunately, His Highness Prince Siegfried is … away." How much was appropriate to reveal? He was the Royal Advisor, yes, but these decisions were ultimately Prince Siegfried's. And this had all happened far too fast. "You see, he is to be married soon, and he is … meeting with his fiancee." It wasn't a total lie, and it was necessary to appear strong. After all, negotiations with Rungholt had been tense at best. Karon had even removed the bandages from his head before greeting the Rungholtans. They needed to come from a place of strength.

He was surprised to see, though, that Prince Femio's eyes went alight at the news. "A  _wedding_! Oh~!" The prince pressed his hands to his heart and stood from his seat. "Such majesty and celebration! A true tale of love and happiness—alas, my heart never wavers, and I can  _never_  find a bride, for I belong to every woman, and I cannot simply just choose  _one_ ~! I should be utterly punished—!"

"Ahem," Montand interrupted, leaning in to whisper into Prince Femio's ear once again.

In reply, the prince's expression fell and he sat back down. "Y-Yes, well, it  _does_ seem rude of him to leave right before my visit!"

Karon frowned behind his teacup. "As I said, Your Grace, we had no news of your arrival and the wedding is due to be within the next month or two. I'm afraid I do not know how long he will be away."

"Ah," he began, glancing over to Montand as if for reassurance before he continued, "then I shall … wait here for his return! Be certain to send word to him that I am here! Oh, I  _do_  hope his fiancee does not fall to my charms as well ... !"

Karon's heart sunk. "I—yes, of course." He was in no place to argue. Any wrong move could spell danger for the entire negotiation. "I shall have our servants prepare only the best for you."

The rest of the time had been spent exchanging pleasantries (or attempting to, on Karon's part, as he had to sit through Prince Femio's long tangents about himself) and taking part in cakes and more tea. All the while, Montand had been right over Prince Femio's shoulder, quiet and polite, but ever-present.

It was peculiar, and impossible to escape Karon's notice.

Finally, it was time to retire, and by then, dusk was fast-approaching. Raetsel politely led Prince Femio and his entourage to his room to prepare for the lavish dinner that Miss Ebine, the head cook, had been able to conjure at the last minute—Karon made a mental note to suggest raising Ebine's wages later.

Karon approached the nearest knight as they exited the drawing room, his eyes still trained on Prince Femio and his attendants as they made their way down the hall, the prince making backhanded compliments on the shabby coziness of the marble stairway. With a hushed voice, Karon muttered, "... In which direction had Prince Siegfried taken flight?"

"Northward, sir."

Karon gave him a firm nod. "Send a dove and a message northward. Tell His Highness Prince Siegfried of what has transpired—"

"— _They are back! Prince Siegfried has returned!_ "

All persons in the hall froze and turned on their heels, facing the frantic knight in clinking plated armor scrambling toward them in a wild hurry. Raetsel's breath hitched, Prince Femio blinked cluelessly, his attendants were on alert, and Karon's heart dropped.

"Your Highness," Karon began carefully, turning back to the Rungholtans, "Please retire to your room and prepare for dinner; Prince Siegfried shall join you there."

"Oh, but of course I—" The prince trailed off as Montand stepped forward with a swift mumble that Karon couldn't catch from the distance. After a moment, Prince Femio gave his valet a nod, before turning back to Karon. "Ah, non, non~! I shall meet him now, and  _then_  prepare, yes?"

Montand stepped back, and Karon frowned. He had no choice but to agree.

They followed the knight through the corridors of the Grand Chateau, Karon and Raetsel secretly anxious while Prince Femio merely straightened out his attire to meet Prince Siegfried himself.

However, upon reaching the entrance hall, instead of seeing Lady Ahiru safely in Prince Siegfried's arms, they saw only him and General Lysander, their eyes dark with fatigue and something unfathomably tormenting. Karon felt the cold chill of misery flood him, noting the blood stains strewn across their cloaks, their cheeks dirt-smudged, his usually dignified and warm prince dull and withdrawn.

Prince Femio's attendants began to whisper among themselves, and all others were dead silent.

Karon's eyes met Prince Siegfried's and a dismal understanding passed between the two of them.

A precarious situation, indeed.

* * *

Ahiru trudged aimlessly around the underground village, her shoulders slumped, her slippers in her hand. The stone ground was cold on her bare feet, but she persisted on, unable to keep still despite how far her heart had sunk.

She didn't know what to  _do_. She could've returned to the hut they'd given to her, but sitting alone in the darkness, even with her pendant, didn't seem all too inviting at the moment. Ahiru really wanted something— _anything_  to hold onto.

They all stared as she wandered through. Ahiru kept to the edges of the village, meandering around the upper ground, but never crossing into the inner areas of town. She couldn't stand the looks they all gave her, some accusing, others smirking, most uncertain … and aggravatingly enough, no one tried to stop her from exploring either. They were so  _sure_  of themselves, so positive that they had her, completely and utterly.

Maybe they did. Ahiru was still coming to terms with that.

Even though people were walking about now, the bleakness of the village continued to persist, any of the earlier merriment and celebration of that morning dissipating into the dreary nature of the underground hamlet. Through her aimlessness, Ahiru did take notice of details she hadn't before. In one area of town, the edge of the stone platform actually met the earthy dome that encompassed it instead of dipping down into nothingness. It was here that they had planted a rather fruitful garden, most of the crops organized in a large patch of earth, but some of them along the wall of dirt and soil. As she passed, two villagers busied themselves with pulling carrots right out of the vertical garden and into their baskets, and even in Ahiru's disheartened state, she wondered just how they were able to make anything grow when the sun was never to be seen down here. They pumped groundwater from the walls as well, and they all seemed quite comfortable with the system.

For a group that was apparently "cursed," they seemed to be doing rather well down here, she thought wryly. But Ahiru carried on her way when even the farmers began to send their penetrating glances in her direction. She reached up to her neck to clutch at her pendant, but she'd forgotten that it was gone.

There was little else to see here, and no sign of another way out just yet, so she found herself descending the ladder to the lower ground. It was quieter here with fewer huts and people, and she took note that the whole platform was smaller than the one above. There was no garden and seemed generally less lived-in altogether. Maybe that was why they gave her a hut down here—they probably didn't want to be around her or see her that often.

Ahiru headed straight for her designated hut, not finding any reason to search around on this floor. There was nothing else to do for now, and she felt exhaustedly numb from  _everything_.

Maybe she should just … nap.

However, there was something a tad out of place when she returned to the hut. Ahiru left the lantern inside, so the glow emitting from within wasn't strange. But it seemed brighter, somehow, and warmer. She neared the stone structure cautiously, taking careful steps.

When she pushed back the fabric to peek inside, her eyes widened, her shoes slipping from her grip and falling uselessly to the ground.

Dancing around the lantern on the table was a tiny, little lady.

Or at least, it  _resembled_  a lady. Ethereal, she danced and floated about the table as if she was made of light itself, her translucent wings fluttering from beneath her full, flowing hair, her billowing dress almost vanishing as she moved—she was spirit-like, slipping between existence and dreams, a warm, almost  _affectionate_  glow emanating from the tiny dancer that reflected off of Ahiru's discarded pendant still resting on the table.

A fairy. And unbidden, Ahiru hiccuped, bringing her fingertips to her lips in awe, tears filling her eyes. It was a fairy—a real, true fairy, right there, dancing on the rim of the lantern. Swans were commonplace, and Pegasi quite easy to find, but a fairy … oh, they were only  _legends_ , just like dragons. Fairies were the ultimate good, full of magic and light. Or at least, that was what her mother told her before.

The fairy turned toward Ahiru, her eyes growing wide in curiosity. Then, smiling so sweetly and so warmly, she took to the air, her wings buzzing delightedly as she flittered to the redhead.

In spite of everything that had happened, Ahiru smiled tearfully as she lifted her hands, silently inviting the fairy to sit on her palms. "H-Hello," she whispered, her bottom lip trembling. Oh, how her mother would've loved to have seen this beautiful creature, as real as the sun in the sky. The fairy waved delicately and sat comfortably on Ahiru's joined hands. "W-What're you doing in a place like this?" She even  _felt_  warm to the touch, full of the comfort that Ahiru had been unknowingly yearning for this entire time.

The fairy was silent, but tilted her head, reaching out to press a tiny hand to Ahiru's cheek. The small bit of contact was all Ahiru needed, and she let the tears fall. "A-Ah—! I'm sorry! I don't mean to cry or anything! I just—I guess so much has happened, and I—!"

When the fairy stood up and fondly opened her arms, Ahiru couldn't help but bring her to the juncture of her neck and shoulder, reveling in the tenderness the little embrace offered. Crumpling to her knees, Ahiru bowed her head and let herself sink into the welcoming, gentle warmth of the fairy. She didn't question how this fairy could be real, or why she would even be down here.

None of it mattered. This fairy had given her hope. Somehow.

Ahiru didn't know how long she sat there on the cold ground with the tiny lady, letting her dance on her shoulder and lap as she desired. Eventually, the fairy reached out and tugged at one of Ahiru's locks of red hair playfully, before taking to the air once more with a sweet grin. "Eh?" Ahiru glanced up at her in dismay as she began to flutter off and out of the hut. "W-Wait! Don't leave! Where are you going?!" She scrambled to her bare feet and burst outside to follow. "Do you know the way out or—?!"

She followed the fairy's glow and the light buzz of the beating wings to a quiet, secluded part of the lower ground that she hadn't noticed before. And when the fairy stopped, hovering over one specific spot, Ahiru skidded to a stop.

… There was a trapdoor here. That meant there was even more below the lower ground. Ahiru's heart skipped a beat. Was that another way to escape—?

The fairy gestured to the door with a tilt of her tiny head, and Ahiru immediately obliged. It wasn't heavy or locked, and when Ahiru squatted down and pulled at the handle, it opened with great ease. Immediately, the fairy buzzed with delight and zipped downward, her inherent glow lighting the way down.

There was another ladder leading down to a third platform. And there was a glimmer down there, too, that reminded her of the pearl-white grasses back up on the surface …

"That isn't a way out, you know."

"Gyah—!" Ahiru shot up to her feet, the trapdoor slamming shut when she dropped it.

Rue stood there, cool and devastatingly beautiful as usual, but mildly agitated and balancing a basket of clothes against her hip. "My, you're quite excitable, aren't you? Anyway, as I said, it isn't a way out, so don't get your hopes up."

"I was just—!" Ahiru bit her lip, feeling her heart sink all over again. "I was following the—!"

"The ladybug. Yes, I saw."

Ahiru blinked. "Lady … bug?"

Rue kept on with a slight huff, adjusting the basket in her arms. "Hermia has spoken to Elder Raven, and he has instructed me to watch after you while Autor prepares  _something_  for you." Her gaze lowered a bit, eyes growing distant. "... It will help you understand."

At a loss, Ahiru couldn't find the words to respond. Understand? What more was there to understand? They were cursed, and she was supposed to be sacrificed, and no one had given her a complete story yet. Fakir had been the one to be honest with her first.

Taking Ahiru's silence as a signal to go on, Rue continued, "Well, come on then. You're to help me with the laundry."

"Eh?"

With a small smirk, Rue turned to lead the way back toward the ladder to upper ground. "Fakir did say you come from nobility. Perhaps it's time to learn a more practical skill now that you're without servants, Ahiru."

Her tone left no room for argument, and Ahiru's cheeks flushed with shame at the words. It was true that she didn't know how to wash clothes or anything like that—Pique and Lilie had always taken care of those things for her, and she didn't really question it.

While she did feel like she should learn, she didn't want to start with her kidnappers' clothes. With one, final glance down at the trapdoor, Ahiru sighed and trudged after Rue, feeling exhausted from all of this emotional whiplash.

Even if it wasn't an escape route, Ahiru couldn't help but be curious and long for the presence of that fairy again.

They made their way back to the upper ground (with Rue using a rather practical method of pulling the basket up with looped rope—honestly, these people seemed to figure out  _everything_ about living down here). Once again, Ahiru found herself avoiding eye contact with the vast majority of the villagers, and kept her eyes down on her feet as she trailed after Rue. Stopping in the center of the town, Ahiru took a glance around. The formation of the cobblestone and the placement of the huts made this little area almost look like a town square, and this was where everyone gathered and danced about earlier that morning.

Instead of a large piano, there were two washtubs this time, and a couple of villagers were heaving the last needed buckets of water into them. Rue smiled arrestingly when they finished, thanking them accordingly before setting the basket down. She set about preparing, adding soap to one of the filled washtubs while Ahiru stood uncomfortably off to the side. "You'll be in charge of scrubbing," Rue instructed, turning her nose up. "Use that washboard over there. Surely, you've seen your servants do it before."

Ahiru didn't know why she was going along with this, but soon enough, she was on her knees in front of the washtub, her sleeves rolled up, and vigorously rolling the soapy fabric against the washboard. She had a feeling Rue intentionally gave her this duty—the poised woman didn't seem the type to enjoy such labor at all.

Oddly enough, Ahiru wasn't all too bothered by it, even if it was a bit taxing on her muscles. It gave her something to do—something to tire her out. And it was monotonous enough for her mind to wander off into its dizzying circles again. Thoughts of her prince, of how Pique and Lilie would giggle if they saw her doing her kidnappers' laundry, of her mother, of that fairy lady bug thing …

While she was  _not_  giving in to becoming their slave or something, she definitely had to admit that there was something nice about simply  _being_  and  _doing_.

Ahiru would finish this task this time. And then, she would work on escape. Again. Somehow.

Determined, she set her jaw, pursed her lips, and scrubbed faster.

"Slow down," Rue admonished, sitting casually on a stool nearby. "It's just laundry—there's no rush."

"Ah … s-sorry, I've never really done this before."

"I thought as much." Pushing a lock of thick, dark hair behind her ear, Rue leaned forward, tilting her head. "I don't expect anyone to want to try if they don't have to. It isn't my favorite chore, that's for certain."

Ahiru didn't know why, but she kept the conversation going, somehow feeling soothed by the repetitious, tedious work of scrubbing at rough fabric. "I dunno. It's kinda relaxing in a weird way."

"You're an odd one, aren't you, to enjoy such a task when you likely haven't even swept your own floor before?" Rue smirked, turning her chin up. "What  _does_  a noblewoman such as yourself do with her time?"

With a blink, Ahiru took pause, her hands growing still on the washboard. She had her lessons with her tutor, mostly on etiquette and waltzes. There were some days where she had to study mathematics and literature, but she hardly paid attention, come to think of it.

But what did she do with her free time? Daydream of her prince? Play with her dolls? Feed birds that came to her window? Walk on the beach and … daydream more?

At the core of it, Ahiru really didn't know  _what_  she'd been doing with herself. She bit her lip with uncertainty. "Um—! I liked … w-well …" She had  _one_ aspiration for herself, really, and that was to be a ballerina, like the one that twirled in her music box, like Rue, Hermia, and that woman with the flowers did earlier that morning—like her own  _mother_. But during her first lesson when she was still quite little, her instructor had claimed that Ahiru had bad feet and awful balance, and told her mother and father that teaching her would be for naught.

When Ahiru trailed off into cheerless silence, Rue's expression softened as if she realized she'd touched upon a sensitive subject, her crimson eyes strangely unguarded despite her usual, proud disposition. "... Well, if you like cleaning so much, at least it will be something to do. Just let me know if there is … anything else that might entertain you."

At least for the next two months, Ahiru supposed with a downhearted frown, going back to her chore.

* * *

Fakir's right hand itched. With a scowl, he mentally forced the sensation away, turning his attention to Autor as they stepped out of Elder Raven's hut.

Autor looked particularly worse for wear, the weariness and anxiety prevalent behind those glasses. Damn Hermia and her excessive empathy. Putting Autor into that position was hardly ideal, even if it did seem like the only way.

_Just two more months of this_ , Fakir reminded himself,  _and it'll finally all be over._

Autor adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand (Fakir only saw it because he was looking for it). Fakir knew him well enough to know that he was trying to hide his trepidation with irritation, so he didn't press the matter. After all, they all had to do what they had to do. Fakir's own part was finished.

Elder Raven's words still rang in his ears. "As far as I'm concerned, Fakir," he said just a few minutes ago, "you have  _almost_ redeemed yourself. But  _never_  forget your failures, and what they cost us."

As if he needed a reminder. As if the guilt hadn't tore and gnawed and ripped at him for what felt like an eternity—unchanged, unwavering, and still as fresh as if it all happened yesterday.

Frozen in time. As unmoving and stagnant as the air of their town, the inescapably painful memories still keeping them all tossing and turning in the night.

Yes, Fakir's part was over, and just now, it had been Autor's.

To do it, Autor had to relive it all.

It was understandable that Autor had been against it at first. But Elder Raven's word was finite and sensible. Hermia had felt that girl's anguish and had seen how stubborn, yet kindhearted, the sacrifice apparently was. Elder Raven considered the smoothest and most painless way to go about it was to play to the girl's sympathies, regardless of Autor's own reservations about the subject. Fakir thought it to be rather manipulative, but didn't protest; shining a bit of light on their own truths wasn't a bad idea, and Hermia was coming from a good place by suggesting it, despite it meaning that Autor had to see it all over again.

None of them wanted to go back to that time, but it seemed that they had to in order to move forward.

… What did moving forward even feel like anymore? Fakir couldn't even remember, it had been so long.

It was with tense silence that they stepped out of the hut, Autor clutching a roll of parchment (the words fresh and detailed and painful scrawled out in jagged lettering) to his chest as he adjusted his glasses again. "Hmph. We seem to have gone well out of our way for a girl who's only going to die in two months." Autor tried to hide it, but Fakir could detect the barest hints of distress in his words.

Fakir glanced away, his frown deepening. "It's nothing you haven't done before." He tried to downplay it—make it seem less difficult than it truly was. But Fakir watched Autor sit at that desk, his muscles clenched and his eyes wild while the words poured onto the page. Autor broke three quills as he wrote, and his fingers were still stained black with ink and red with the blood of his cracked writer's callouses.

Autor was a wordsmith of history. An infuser of memory. He could write all that was and had been.

_Fakir used to write all that could—_

"Please,  _that_  coming from  _you_?" Autor turned away, his hands crinkling the parchment. "Maybe you've forgotten what it's like, considering you  _can't_  anymore."

Anger flared in Fakir's chest and his green eyes blazed, but for now, he let it slide. They couldn't have an incident. Not when they were so close to the end. Not when they were just beyond the reach of freedom. And he knew that Autor was in a precarious, traumatic place right now.

No, Fakir hadn't forgotten. He  _couldn't_. But he knew that they all had to do their own parts in this, as Elder Raven dictated (as much as Fakir was loathe to admit it).

They walked in tense silence for a brief distance, and came upon a peculiar sight. Rue sat at the edge of the town square with the laundry washtubs as usual, but she wasn't working this time. Instead, she casually sat on a stool while  _that girl_  was hunched over the washboard, digging the soaked, soapy fabric into it.

Fakir raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. The girl had her tongue sticking stupidly out of the side of her mouth, and she was splashing far more than necessary—not that she could've noticed, with her eyes staring off into nothing like that as she worked. She certainly didn't look like a princess-to-be. Maybe they were doing her prince a favor by keeping such a handful away from him.

Autor grit his teeth together, as if struggling to keep himself together after his ordeal. "Great. Now they're letting her do our chores. So much for out of sight, out of mind." Fakir was sure that the girl was driving Autor near mad at this point.

Indeed, Fakir was seeing her more than he thought he had to, and it had only really been a day or two. But Elder Raven found it necessary to keep the girl occupied, and perhaps draw her into agreeing to their terms willingly. After all, none of this was personal. This was just how it had to be. Fakir did have to wonder why it had to be someone like  _Ahiru_ , though, who really was harmless, if a bit loud, unlike her damned ancestor.

As if to solidify his thoughts, the girl seemed to have been far too lost in thought to catch herself as she shoved roughly against the washboard. The force of it and her general lack of balance sent her toppling forward. "A- _Ah_ —!" Her squeal cut off into a muffled gurgle and she slid down against the washboard, her head and shoulders hitting the soapy water with a splash, her legs sprawled out behind her.

Fakir shook his head, marveling that this girl could even be real.

"How stupid," Autor muttered, impatience dripping from his voice.

Fakir smirked just a bit, softer than usual.  _Yeah, definitely stupid_.

They watched as Rue approached the washtub, a tiny smile on her face as that girl extracted herself from the soapy pool. The redhead was sputtering, pulling off a drenched shirt that had clung to the top of her head. She looked positively silly to all who saw, and even Fakir had to admit that it was at least amusing.

The soaked girl looked absolutely clueless, and Rue laughed.

Fakir's eyebrows rose at the bell-like giggle that Rue released from behind her hand, having not heard that sound from his sister in—since before all of this. Then, his gaze drifted back to Ahiru, water dripping from her bangs and clinging to her skin. Had that girl really just—?

However, Autor didn't seem to take Rue's laughter as well as Fakir had. In fact, the bespectacled man turned pale at the sight, his eyes widening in disgust. "Did you see—did Rue just laugh? Just like that?"

While it was a rare and welcome sound, Fakir didn't think it deserved that much attention. "What of it? Leave it be."

"That girl, the  _sacrifice_ , made Rue smile. The sacrifice, Fakir!"

"Grow up. The girl was just being stupid—"

"When has  _anyone_  here made her laugh like that?! We never could do that for her.  _I_  never could do that for her, but  _she_ can?!"

Fakir ground his teeth together, his fists clenching, his voice taking on an edge of warning. "That's  _enough_. I know you're stressed; I saw what you went through, but you need to  _calm_ —."

"Oh, that's rich,  _you_ telling  _me_  to calm down. You finally bring us the sacrifice, and suddenly you're better than us—you're forgiven for everything you caused!"

Fakir's eyes narrowed sharply, his hand forming into a tight, shaking fist.

But Autor spun on his heel, already making a beeline for Rue and the redhead at the washtub. And Fakir did  _not_ like the way Autor's muscles began to tense and his movements grew rigid, the rolled up parchment crumpling in his grip.

Before Fakir followed, he needed a moment to calm  _himself_  down first.

* * *

Ahiru didn't exactly know how she ended up face-first into the washtub. She had been thinking of that fairy again, of how she danced so prettily like Rue, Hermia, and that beautiful blonde woman with the flowers. Even if that trapdoor didn't lead to anything important, she was still curious—maybe there were more of those fairies. Or … well, Rue called her a ladybug. Whatever that meant.

Still, though she was flushed from embarrassment and trying to wipe the suds from her eyes, she supposed she'd done worse things. When she heard Rue's surprisingly musical laughter, her blush deepened. "That's not—it's not funny—!"

However, Ahiru couldn't help but notice that the mirth in Rue's eyes was warmer than her usual, cool countenance. It was a welcome change, and honestly, it was a rather pretty laugh—genuine and sweet-sounding. Rue's pale cheeks were tinged pink, her eyes crinkling a bit in her soft smile. "Hm … I've just never met someone so clumsy before. How did you even manage to fall over like that?"

"I slipped! Or something! I-I dunno!"

Rue's smile widened. "You weren't even standing, silly girl."

"I just—"

"Well, don't  _you_  seem rather chipper."

Ahiru jumped, recognizing the voice immediately and setting her pout into a petulant glare in Autor's direction. Yes, she decided she really didn't like him at all. But for some reason, he looked less dignified than he had earlier, with his hair a bit disheveled and his eyes somewhat bloodshot, his hand tightly gripping into a roll of parchment. His eyebrows were furrowed and his jaw was set tightly, and Ahiru had to wonder if something had happened.

Rue stood up from her stool, her expression cool once again. "Autor. Is it done—?"

He was all but shoved the roll of parchment at Ahiru, letting the paper collide with her face. "Gyah—!"

"There. There's the stupid memory. Which I  _slaved_  over, by the way, just for you." He snapped his attention to Rue. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

Rue's eyes took on a defensive edge. "What are you talking about?"

"You, smiling at this girl and talking to her as if she wasn't lower than dirt!"

Ahiru was about to open the parchment to read it, but she was suddenly caught up in their exchange, morbidly intrigued by it all, even if she shouldn't have been. "The girl and I were simply having a conversation," Rue countered dismissively, "What, are you sore that I haven't given you my undivided attention again?"

Autor visibly bristled. "I'm sore because everyone here is catering to the  _spawn of the bastard who did this to us!_ " He accusingly pointed a finger toward the soaked redhead, her own eyes wide as saucers, her face now pale. "That girl has his blood running through his veins, and he betrayed us all! He betrayed Edel, he betrayed  _me_! I just saw it—I  _felt_ it happen all over again, just to make  _this stupid girl_  understand?!"

She couldn't understand anything he was trying to imply. There were bits of information—a puzzle that she couldn't fit together, with half the pieces still missing. And she felt even more lost, knowing that everything all connected to her, and she was left with even more questions.

Were the answers in this roll of parchment …?

Just as Ahiru was about to open it, she noticed that a few passing villagers had begun to slow to a stop around them, keeping a good distance away, but sending hushed warnings to Autor. "You _need_ to calm down," some said, seemingly cautious.

"Please stop this … !"

"Not now, please, not now!"

"We can't handle another incident …"

Even Rue had begun to back away, and Ahiru could only glance around, feeling the thick tension in the air and at a loss as to how to deal with it.

But all the warnings went ignored, especially when Fakir seemingly came from nowhere to step between Autor and Ahiru. She stared up at his back, and even from this angle, she could tell that Fakir was likewise taut with frustration. "Back off, Autor," Fakir growled, "We can't have this now, and you damn well know it."

Autor was not having it. He jabbed his finger repeatedly against Fakir's chest. "As if  _you_  have any right to say anything! I've said it before, I'll say it again, and again, because you  _never_  seem to get it—"

"Shut up."

"—This whole time,  _for three centuries_ , you always thought you knew better—"

"I said,  _shut up_."

"—always resisting the Elder, always telling the rest of us what to do and never accepting that all of this is because—"

" _Stop_."

"—we can't move forward because of  _you_! We are frozen like this because of  _you_! Everything is because of  _you_! Hell, even  _Uzura_  couldn't even grow up and it's all your fault—!"

Fakir reared back and sent his fist flying into Autor's cheek, knuckles colliding with his face in a harsh  _crack_  and sending the glasses into the air for the second time that day.

And for a long, suspended moment, everyone froze. Even Ahiru couldn't breathe as the weight of everything pushed down upon her.

She heard Rue breathlessly and uneasily mutter, "Fakir,  _no_  …"

The punch brought Autor to his knees, or at least, that was Ahiru's assumption, until he began to tremble almost violently, his limbs beginning to twitch, his form writhing and voice coming out in harsh grunts and whimpers.

It was disturbingly familiar. Like that night when she'd been kidnapped. But Fakir's transformation seemed intentional, like he was preparing himself for the pain before it started.

This time, it was chillingly different.

And when Fakir turned on his heel to face the villagers, Autor's pained groans and cracking of bone and muscle behind him, Ahiru could see the worry lining his face, and she knew that she was right. This  _was_  different. "Get everyone out—go to the tunnel,  _now_!"

Everyone burst into action, but oddly not panicked, as if this had been done before. Rue scowled at Fakir, but he stopped her before she said anything. "I'm sor—dammit, scold me later! Get Raven, and make sure Uzura's safe!"

Without another word, she set off to do just that as Fakir went to nearby huts to get people out and help to evacuate. Autor's hands morphed and cracked, the limbs elongating and his body growing to that terrifying, massive size, the grey-purple scales beginning to pierce through his skin.

Under his weight, the upper ground began to quake, and that was when Ahiru realized that she was still sitting there dumbly, holding the parchment, shaking on the ground, and unable to figure out what to do or how to—

—What was  _happening_?!

"What are you  _doing_ , you idiot?!" Fakir hollered over the dragon's growls and steady roars as he made his way back to her.

"I-I don't—!" Panic seized her. She tried her best to stand, but the platform shook even more violently, and she fell back on her rear, dropping the parchment. "I can't—!"

"Useless!" She felt herself get lifted up into Fakir's arms as Autor's neck stretched, the spines sprouting from his back, the wings forcing their way through. Fakir cradled her close and made a mad dash for that tunnel they used to get into the village. It should've dawned on her that this could very well have been her chance of escape, but as she watched the dragon roar over Fakir's shoulder, small embers puffing out from its nostrils with it's large, scaly tail swinging back and slamming violently into a nearby hut, sending wood and stone into the air—!

Ahiru was so  _scared_ , she could only cling to Fakir's shoulders helplessly and watch.

But out of the wreckage, the Elder stepped closer to the rampaging, purple dragon, his expression calm.

And then, Raven began his own transformation. His own was fluid and swift, as if stepping into his new form with ease. He made no sounds of pain, he didn't hunch over in anguish as the spines pierced out of his back and his bones morphed him into another creature. He was utterly, completely untroubled.

Ahiru's fingers on Fakir's shirt clenched, her eyes widening as this new dragon spread its feathered wings to keep itself aloft and its weight off the platform, its snout almost beak-like. And in the darkness, with it's black wings stretched out over the empty town, it reminded her of …

She shook her head and buried her face into Fakir's neck when Raven released a chilling, caw-like roar, piercing the air enough to make even Fakir himself stumble. "Nngh—!" She held tight when she felt him drop to his knees, but he still did not release her as the ground beneath them continued to shake precariously.

Looking up, she watched as Raven's screech penetrated through the other dragon's frenzy. The monster that used to be Autor reached up, covered its head, and curled up, twitching and writhing as he struggled to change back. But with one last swipe of it's shrinking horned tail, it sent debris flying through the air.

Toward them.

"L-Look out!" Ahiru shrieked. Fakir barely glanced over his shoulder as a hefty boulder and other smaller pieces of wood and stone sailed toward them. With a grunt, he launched Ahiru away from him, sending her rolling off to a safe distance as he deftly tried to leap out of the way.

She landed with a pained squeak, her head throbbing and vision fuzzy. Desperately trying to compose herself, she held her head still and tried to blink away the confusion. Then she attempted to sit up, wincing and frantically looking around. Fakir—had he—?!

Ahiru stood up (the ground had stopped quaking now, and it was eerily quiet) and stumbled around the large stone, stepping over wood and rock and ignoring the sharpness of pain along the bottoms of her bare feet. She bled from her knees and elbows, and her cheek was throbbing along with her head, but she could certainly still move and adrenaline still pulsed through her veins.

Fakir saved her again. Even if it was because they needed her for a sacrifice, she still hoped that he was alright—!

When she found him, her heart stopped. Fakir apparently dodged the boulder, but a stray piece of wood had lodged itself into his shoulder, embedded into the flesh. He was bleeding all down his arm as he hunched over on his knees, clutching at the wood with growing desperation.

And he began to twitch, his muscles spasming.

No. No, no,  _no_ , it couldn't happen again! This place wouldn't hold out if it did!

But she bit her lip, noticing in her peripheral vision that the tunnel was open. Surely, the other villagers were crowded in there and escape was near-impossible, but this would've been her only chance! If she could just hide and then escape into the chaos, then—!

"Nngh _aaahhhhh_ —!"

Fakir slammed a fist down into the ground as wings sprouted from his back, ripping through the back of his shirt, the leathery, papery appendages flapping uselessly. He brutally quivered, a few scales appearing across his arms.

_He's fighting it_ , she realized.

And she couldn't just leave him like this. Escape didn't matter right now.

Not that she knew what she could do, but she had to try!

Scrambling over to him, she reached out with quivering hands and dropped down on her bleeding knees in front of him. She didn't know how to—he looked like he was in such  _pain_ and—! "P-Please—shh, it's okay, everything's okay! O-Oh no—!"

The whites of his eyes turned yellow, his expression wild and teeth grinding like stones together. That was when she reached out and took his face between her trembling hands. "I-It's okay, shh, it's okay, Fakir, you're okay! It's over, it's over, we'll get you fixed up—! I-It's not too bad, I think! I'm-I'm here!"

Slowly, as she rambled on to him, she felt some of her warmth escape from her palms and wash across his cheeks. Somehow, his struggles began to dissipate. The scattered patches of scales remained, and his wings gave a slight spasm every so often, but soon, his eyes returned to normal, and the harsh lines across his face began to soften.

His transformation … stopped? "F-Fakir—?"

Fakir's green eyes refocused on her, and then lolled back before falling shut.

Ahiru squeaked when he slumped forward, the winged man falling unconscious in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Docktor Locktor


	6. Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, story-spinner …"
> 
> Though his fingertips burned (as if his body begged desperately for a quill now more than ever), Fakir glanced up, his green eyes widening in horror as Drosselmeyer addressed him from the stage, even in Fakir's dark corner at the back of the audience.
> 
> And for all who were present, it felt as though time had stopped.
> 
> "... Shall I weave your tale for you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please comment with your thoughts! I love feedback, both positive and negative! Thanks so much for taking the time to read!

They seemed eerily calm as they bustled about, hefting debris from the main roads and working to clean up the area with practiced precision. It was as if they really had done this before.

The sounds of decisive commands and the scatter of feet were muted to Ahiru's ears as the villagers busied themselves with recovering what they could of the damages done in the fray. Instead, she had her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her shins. Her chin rested gently on her forearms, expression dull.

She didn't care that the blood dripped freely down from her skinned knees and elbows, or that the crimson rivulets from the shallow cut on her temple matted messily into her orange-red hair. The sharp pain from her mild abrasions didn't matter compared to everything else that just happened or what was going on in the hut behind her.

With her back against the stone, she briefly lifted her head to glance at the covered doorway. She knew that, behind that cloth, people were tending to Fakir's injuries.

His blood still stained her dress. She winced when she recalled how severe his wound had been, with the chunk of wood lodged so deep into his left shoulder, a few scales puncturing from out of his flesh in certain areas, his wings black and heavy out of his back.

The kidnapping, the supposed sacrifice, her limited two months … All of that paled in comparison to the fact that he had saved her, and this entire incident had been her fault.

Didn't that serve them all right, though? Didn't they deserve every bit of it? They spirited her away against her will. They kept implying that they had their reasons and that it wasn't personal, but with or without the full story, it didn't excuse them for the terrible things they committed against her and, by extension, her prince. Right …?

Ahiru's expression fell as she watched the villagers dismally clear away the destroyed buildings and tend to one another's cuts and bruises.

Suddenly, she regretted her previous thoughts. No one deserved this, no matter who they were or what they did.

Not for the first time, she felt stuck. It would've been so simple if she had taken advantage of the chaos and escaped. By now, she could've been climbing up those hills and into the forest surrounding the white valley, trying to find someone who could help her.

And yet, when she thought of what she would've left in her wake—destruction left by one dragon and the sudden transformation of another when the upper ground already looked like it was about to collapse—Ahiru didn't know if she really regretted her sudden decision. Somehow, some way, Fakir was able to stop his change. Did she actually … help him?

Well, not really. None of this would've happened in the first place had it not been for her.

But they were the ones who kidnapped her and brought her here!

But she—!

She grumbled in frustration, burying her face in her arms. There she was, going around in circles all over again, when ultimately the one who kidnapped her  _and_  saved her life was seriously hurt. The entire ordeal was chaos, but how could she forget the way he threw her off to the side before doing anything else? How could she forget how he picked her up from the quaking ground to carry her to safety when everyone else had left?

Maybe it was because of her importance as a sacrifice, but …

… Ahiru just didn't  _know_  anymore. She wanted to resent all of them, and yet, she worried for them. It wasn't right.

She only glanced up again when she heard the shuffle of thick fabric, and Rue stepped out from within the hut. For all of Rue's beauty, she now looked weary, her skin even more pale than usual and her eyes bloodshot. Their gazes briefly met, Rue's expression cool and unreadable, but tired nonetheless.

Ahiru's cheeks were red with shame. Did Rue blame her?

Raven was soon to follow, pushing back the cloth wearing a calm expression. He had managed to escape unscathed, and Ahiru couldn't help but be reminded of his seamless, fluid transformation earlier. She remembered as clear as day the way he morphed with such graceful simplicity, taking shape and fitting into it with ease like water poured into a glass, his mighty, dark-feathered wings beating with such force and decisiveness, that caw-like screech still echoing through her mind.

She shuddered from the memory.

With a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, Raven leaned in closer to Rue, speaking evenly and amiably. "He'll be fine in Freya's care. Now, go. You have a task, don't you?"

Obediently, Rue bowed her head without argument, letting her gaze linger on Ahiru for a moment before she started off. Raven turned his smile toward Ahiru as Rue took her leave, but Ahiru found no comfort in it. "Ah, you poor thing," he tsked, staring pityingly at her scrapes and bruises. "That was quite an ordeal for you, wasn't it?"

Ahiru didn't reply. All she could think was that Fakir and Autor must've suffered much worse than a couple of skinned knees and a scratch on her forehead. It was hard to tell if Raven was being genuine or not.

She doubted she'd ever really know.

"Well," the Elder continued, stepping aside and holding the cloth open for her, "why don't you come in? Freya can take a look at you while we have a little chat."

Ahiru silently got to her feet, her hands wringing into her skirt as she made her way through the threshold. She doubted Raven would've given her much choice to refuse, so she went along with his instructions for now.

Inside, it smelled of incense. There was a tall case of shelves and a desk beside it, both lined and filled to the brim with candles, dusty vials and jars of potions, mushrooms, weeds, flowers, spices, herbs, dried fruit, roots, assorted tree bark, and other such miscellaneous plant life that Ahiru couldn't recognize, all collected neatly in their containers or sitting in baskets. Beside the display was an empty cauldron sitting over a small fireplace. Across the room was a ratty sheet held up only by old clothespins and rope strung from one corner to the other, likely to give privacy to whoever rested in the bed behind it.

The sheet was pushed back and a woman emerged, holding a mortar and pestle and grinding up flower petals and herbs between the stone. She was the same, lovely ballerina who danced so gracefully alongside Rue and Hermia, with sweeping, elegant and golden hair that tumbled down to her knees. Her eyes were a gentle moss-green, and unlike Rue's striking beauty and Hermia's earnest sweetness, this woman held an expression so soft and so serene that Ahiru was drawn in by just the air of tranquility she exuded alone. Ahiru blushed when the woman smiled.

"This is Freya," said Raven with a gesture of his arm, "She is our most talented healer. Her knowledge of remedies and nature are incomparable. You will be well taken care of in her capable hands."

Freya shook her head delicately, a dainty blush staining her cheeks at Raven's compliment. "Oh, it is not through my talent alone—the flowers have their own voices, and it is through them that I am able to tend to you, Miss Ahiru." She placed the mortar and pestle onto the desk nearby, pushing a couple of candles and incense out of the way to make room, before politely curtsying. "Shall I see to your care now? I have something that may soothe your aches in no time—"

Perhaps Ahiru should've remembered her noble upbringing and curtsied back. It was also completely rude to ignore such an inquiry, and Freya seemed very kind, but she was effectively distracted by a shifting of shadow behind the hanging sheet nearby, and the soft groans coming from within. Ahiru was already moving toward the small opening in the sheet, Raven and Freya oddly patient as they watched her approach the bed.

She winced as she pushed back the cloth, her fingers tangling into it as she bit her lip. Fakir, now shirtless, laid on his side, one of his wings still spasming uselessly while the other hung limp. His left shoulder was bound by clean linen around his torso, and his head had likewise been properly bandaged with care, it seemed. The scales that protruded from his forearms and chest shimmered like polished arrowheads in the candlelight of the nearby side table, and his expression was set into a deep grimace even in his sleep. Sweat dripped from his bandaged temples and back, leaving a light sheen across his wounded form.

With him like this, she was brutally reminded of that first scar—the jagged mark that ran from his right shoulder to the left of his navel—and Ahiru felt suddenly ill.

He seemed so strong, otherwise. With broad shoulders and toned form, he was able to lift her up so easily and run at such a swift pace earlier. Now … well, she just felt ashamed for causing even more damage. To this place, and to him.

Once again, she felt silly, feeling remorse over her kidnapper. Ahiru shook her head and tried to harden her heart.

"He's just fine." Freya's reassurance was almost musical in tone. Ahiru felt the woman's presence beside her, her golden hair brushing against her arm. "When he recovers, he'll have the strength to transform back into full human form, I think. So don't you worry."

Ahiru's cheeks flushed, feeling frustrated with herself and with everything else. "I-I'm not worried. He—you  _kidnapped_  me, so—!" So she couldn't be worried about any of them. Not about how hurt Fakir was, or about how Rue seemed so anxious, or about how this place was damaged so terribly ...

Freya released a sigh and stepped away, turning her attention to her cauldron and filling it with water from a pitcher. "... You're right. I'm sorry."

"Ah, before I forget," Raven interrupted with misplaced pleasantry (and Ahiru was realizing that he had a  _habit_  of doing that), "that was quite the trick you displayed, halting his transformation when he had already begun the change. You must have a touch of magic, yourself."

Ahiru turned around to face him, her lips parting and eyebrows furrowing in confusion. She didn't like the way his red eyes narrowed and how his smile widened. "I don't have—"

"A few of the others saw everything. How Fakir had almost lost control of himself, and how you singlehandedly stopped it with a touch of your hand, a white glow surrounding you … I must say, it is the first time we've ever seen someone stop in the middle of it." He looked quite intrigued by it, and he ran his long fingers through his hair as he continued to marvel to himself. "I wonder if we will ever have a chance to witness it again."

A white glow? Magic? Ahiru didn't remember any of that. She simply wanted to calm him down before he destroyed everything. And there was nothing magical about her at all!

She was just … average. And not at all that special.

In the back of her mind, she wondered if Mytho would've given her a second glance had it not been for their engagement, but she pushed those thoughts away, trying to remember the bliss and the joy she felt during the short time by his side. Those were true feelings and a real connection. And it was all she could hope for, to come home to him.

With a deep breath, she reached up to clutch at her pendant, only to find that it was still gone.

Panic seized her, recalling how it sat uselessly on the table in her hut on the lower ground, flickering in the lamplight …

Discarded or not, she truly, deeply needed it right then and there. Ahiru whirled around on her heel, almost slipping out of balance, before scrambling toward the door. She only stopped when she felt Raven's hand against her shoulder, not quite threatening, but firm enough to realize that she wasn't leaving so quickly. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?" he asked. Even Freya glanced up from whatever she was making in that cauldron, her expression curious, but kind.

Ahiru's hand went up to her neck, her bottom lip trembling. "My—!"

"Ah, yes, the jewel." His smirk returned. "It is safely in our possession, and even if it wasn't, it was on the lower ground, and no damages have been done down there. Have no fear."

In their possession? Someone went well out of their way, down to the lower ground, and into the hut, just to take it? Ahiru frowned while subtly pulling away from Raven's grasp on her shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it is important to you, isn't it?" He relinquished her after a moment, tilting his head as if to be amiable. "After some of us noticed you were no longer wearing it, we sought it out. It's rather important to us, too, you know. You'll understand soon."

More and more, Ahiru resented the vagueness. "I want to understand  _now_!"

Freya politely stepped forward, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "You deserve some rest. It was such an ordeal for everyone, and you and Fakir—"

"I—no. I'm just fine!" Ahiru gripped her dress again, her fists clenching in the fabric. "I just want answers! I'm sorry; I don't want to be rude, but you can save your healing—um— _stuff_ for people who need it more!" She took an instinctive glance toward Fakir's bed, before returning her attention to Raven and Freya. "I'm not asking for anything else. I just want to finally know what I'm doing here!"

Surprised by her outburst, Freya's eyebrows rose, and she bowed her head as if in agreement. For his part, Raven seemed to take her words into serious consideration, and Ahiru was left waiting for his response with a held breath.

Finally, he spoke, casual and calm as ever. "I had planned to wait until repairs were complete, but I suppose these past couple of days have been trying for you."

Ahiru gave him an exasperated look, her lips forming into a pout. As if that wasn't obvious enough. Still, a surge of hope filled her chest. Maybe she would finally get some answers, and then it could all possibly give her a clue as to how to get herself out of this whole mess—some sort of loophole in whatever curse they kept going on and on about.

Raven didn't react to the stare she gave him. Instead, he gestured to the exit. "Then, I suppose it's time to show you what Autor prepared. Freya." He spun on his heel to address her, and she attentively straightened up. "Keep watch and see to it that, should Autor awaken, he doesn't come in here. He might wake Fakir and we can't afford another petty squabble between the children now."

With her nod and Raven's lead, Ahiru was ushered out of the hut, but not before casting one last glance in Fakir's direction, one of his batlike wings stretching out before folding in again in his fitful sleep.

"We were able to recover the scroll that you dropped during their little  _disagreement_ ," Raven remarked as he led her to another destination. Around them, the villagers continued to work with diligence and organization, their eyes tired, but determined. "That was fortunate. We'd hate to have Autor work on a whole new one, wouldn't we?" He chuckled, and Ahiru didn't know how to feel about Raven's lightheartedness. It was hard to think that  _anything_ could be genuine about him.

Everyone here (aside from Fakir) seemed to trust him implicitly, though. Maybe it was because of how effectively he protected them against Autor's rage.

She remained quiet on the way there, wincing a bit when tiny pieces of rock dug into the bottoms of her bare feet. Thankfully, the other hut wasn't too far—larger, but just as dilapidated as the others. It was on the edge of the upper ground, near the farming areas and far enough where Autor's transformation was unable to reach, just a couple of huts away from Freya's.

Raven stepped aside and allowed Ahiru to enter first, holding the fabric up for her.

It was a library.

Or at least, it was the remnants of what was once a library. Dust floated in the air, reflected in the light of a single candle sitting on the only desk inside. The walls were lined with bookcases, filled with decrepit texts and tomes. Curiously, the books themselves weren't covered with dust—they were probably read on a frequent basis. The scent of old pages filled Ahiru's nostrils, reminding her of her strict tutor and the grand library in Hedeby.

Beside the candle was the rolled up parchment, a quill with a broken tip, and an empty inkwell. Taking in a determined breath, Ahiru marched right up to the desk, snatching up the scroll in her hand. It was quite dim inside, but she would do her best to make out the words, or fetch a lantern from somewhere in the village ...

"Ah, but wait."

She pouted, turning toward Raven. Again, more waiting.

However, there was something different in the way Raven looked upon her this time. He was still smirking (she began to wonder if he was capable of ever  _not_  smirking), but his eyes were hooded, narrowed, and dark—suddenly, he seemed … older. More weary.

Ahiru found herself hesitating.

Raven cleared his throat, gesturing to the chair behind the desk. "Perhaps you should have a seat before you get to reading."

Cautious and curious, Ahiru gave him a small nod, swallowing down the anxiety that started to bubble in the pit of her stomach. She lowered herself in the padded chair, the scroll on her lap.

The elder was always unsettling, but today, he was moreso, the candlelight casting dark shades across the lines in his face and setting his eyes aglow. She shrunk back into the cushion of the chair's backrest, biting her lip. Now that she was seated, he towered over her even more, the shadows on the wall behind him large and foreboding, like the feathered wings of his dragon form …

His voice was low and even, with a hint of his usual flippant tones. "Autor worked quite hard, you know. To write is to bare one's soul onto the paper. To write is to funnel your spirit through the quill. To write is to leave your mark upon history and claim your future."

Ahiru, unable to handle his piercing gaze any longer, let her eyes drop down to the innocent-looking scroll on her lap. He sounded reverent with his words—almost like he was praying. Another chill went up her spine.

"You see," he continued, "writing is a special power all on its own. An exquisite, potent, and vital power. And very few can harness it—even I cannot ..." He trailed off, his eyes suddenly guarded and sharp.

Why was he telling her this? She reached up to the empty spot at her collarbone where her pendant used to be, her fingertips shaking. Was writing something that big of a deal?

"That parchment is a testament to our past. Each stroke of ink and each curl of the letter is imbued with our collective spirit and memory. It is all truth, and has been for three centuries. And you will witness it all for the sake of our clan."

Raven allowed his words to hang in the air for a long moment, before he turned on his heel and headed to the doorway. He didn't bother to turn around when he spoke again, lighthearted and pleasant. "I'll give you your privacy!" The sudden change in his tone was jarring.

Ahiru was alone with the scroll, her mouth growing dry and her face pale. She didn't know why she was so unnerved, or why she felt suddenly so apprehensive. She'd asked for this. And all of her questions would be answered if she just … read this.

With quivering hands, she tried to steady herself and place the parchment onto the surface of the desk to let the light illuminate it properly. She took a deep, composing breath, and the unfurled scroll from the top to the bottom. One glance told her that Autor must've started off neatly and organized, but the letters grew further apart, the lines growing crooked, the strokes more jagged as the document went on. There were even brown splatter marks in some areas in the margins—dried blood, she realized with a gulp.

Her eyes snapped to the beginning, and she licked her lips, hungry for answers. The way it was written was factual and direct, the way she supposed someone like Autor  _would_ write.

_Two-hundred-and-ninety-nine years and ten months ago, there was a village called Wyvern, and its people a dwindling race of talented sorcerers._

_Born with the blood of ancient beasts (Draco occidentalis magnus) and the fabled lady-bugs (Fae-creature; commonly known as fairy) running through their veins, these sorcerers lived peacefully, practicing their magicks and_ —

Ahiru blinked, squinting and trying to make sense of Autor's large words in the light. But as she leaned forward and pressed her hand to the letters, the ink on the page began to shimmer. She gasped, pulling her hand away, watching as the words blurred, morphing, swirling,  _opening_  the page before her, as if pulling the curtains from a window.

There was a chorus of hushed voices in her ear before a flash of blue light flooded her vision.

_Witness our truths._

* * *

_A clock was ticking. Gears were grinding backwards._

—

Beyond miles and miles of thick forests was a small range of jagged hills. And beyond these hills, in the center, with soft, green grasses and a sparkling lake, was a village.

Isolated though it might've been, Wyvern was picturesque in its little valley, and the people were happy. It looked to be just like any small town would—a town square with cobblestone roads, a fountain in the center, houses lining the streets, and people (a talented, enchanted folk) who bustled about.

The weather was fair, as it usually was, and the light breeze soothed anyone who might've suffered under the direct heat of the summer sun.

—

One woman took full advantage of the pleasing weather, tucking long, golden hair behind her ear as she hummed to herself, sitting at the edges of town where the wildflowers grew the best. "May I?" Freya whispered to them, caressing one particular bloom in particular. She waited, listening for the soft voices of the flowers that only she could hear, and she smiled.

She plucked the aster delicately and respectfully when she received her response, and placed the flower in her basket with some herbs and spices she gathered. "Thank you. This will bring patience and elegance to my home—"

However, the flowers spoke again, one of the blooms quivering. A dark purple blossom, begging to be plucked. Freya's eyebrows furrowed. Anemone. Fading hope.

How strange. Still, she obeyed the words of nature, and picked the flower.

Today wasn't one for questions or worries, after all. It was the Festival of the Summer Moon, and they had honored guests tonight.

—

Malen pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, strolling to the square and shyly waving at the friendly faces she knew best with her sketchbook clutched to her chest. The villagers knew her well enough to know how quiet she was, and left her to her own devices most of the time.

Content, she sat herself down on the edge of the stone fountain, and opened her sketchbook. It was new, with all blank pages (a gift from the lovely, wonderful Rue). With a deep breath, she closed her eyes, and let her mind connect with others, waiting for a memory or a feeling to coalesce into a strong enough image.

The voices of bustling villagers echoed into her heart and mind—and she smiled a little. Everyone's thoughts (ah, particularly Autor's!) revolved around their recent visitors and the festival that evening. A legendary, well-read wizard who traveled the countryside, seeking wisdom and peace, stopped in their little town but two weeks before with his young protege, marveling at the remote village and its people. The collective images in the villagers' minds slowly formed within her, poured into her hand, and she let her magic do the rest.

Malen sketched. She sketched, with precision and detail, the wizard with a white beard and large, swirling amber eyes. With a giggle, she drew his wide-brimmed hat, complete with the colorful feathers that bobbed with his every movement. Reaching into those clear thoughts once more, she sought out the depiction of his thick eyebrows and long, silvery, curly hair, with his patterned cloak and billowing sleeves. When she finished, she set to work on sketching out his companion, the much younger and much more serious gray-eyed student wizard, who wore a hooded, red cape and rarely spoke, simply writing down what his master dictated. The images were clear as day, and her sketch reflected that.

Indeed, it seemed that everyone was rather excited to have the eccentric wizard visit them. After all, Wyvern didn't receive many guests.

So, Elder Edel welcomed D. D. Drosselmeyer and his young protege into their village.

Idly, Malen smiled, adding one last detail to her little project: a round, red jewel hanging from Drosselmeyer's neck.

—

Hermia glanced up from decorating her festival booth, smiling brightly as Elder Edel approached.

It was known through the generations that Wyvern Village was always led by the most powerful of the enchanted folk who lived there. Concentrated, rich magic flowed through this family's veins, pulsing with pure Draconic and Fae blood.

Indeed, Elder Edel was ethereal, mysterious, and warm, as she should've been considering her lineage. With mint-green hair falling to her shoulders, pure white skin, and wise, swimming blue eyes, she carried herself with a whimsical air, the picture of calm all-knowingness that came from one who led such a special folk.

And Elder Edel didn't just lead, Hermia knew. She cared, loved, and watched over them all.

Upon the wizard's arrival, Hermia felt the excitement that everyone else did—from the bottom of her heart. And with the coming of the Festival of the Summer Moon, everyone seemed to think it was a fated encounter—that it was destiny that a great wizard would arrive to visit their little village at such a celebration. She couldn't help but agree.

Still, Elder Edel instructed every single one of them to keep their talents secret.

Those of Wyvern blood must keep to themselves for their own safety. Hermia might've been subject to the overwhelmingly positive feelings of the others when it came to Drosselmeyer's visit, but Elder Edel's caution was likewise as potent of an emotion. It made the hairs on the back of Hermia's neck stand on end.

Hermia got to her feet as Elder Edel strolled through the village square, greeting young Malen who sat on the edge of the nearby fountain with a small smile. It seemed that the villagers were making good progress—it was still before noon, and most of the stands had been already set up for tonight's celebration. They were undoubtedly excited, and Hermia was particularly enthused about her own booth: a place to make and write letters of love or affection, and put them in a box to be delivered by Hermia herself, anonymous or not.

Out of every emotion that Hermia felt from others, love was her favorite.

Perhaps, one day, she would feel it for herself.

Hermia approached Elder Edel with a grin, positively brimming with delight—she could physically feel the collective joy and anticipation of the villagers. "Elder Edel, good morning!" Hermia greeted sweetly.

Elder Edel curtsied elegantly. "It is. A fine day for the Festival of the Summer Moon." As always, the elder's tone was sing-song and light, like a music box.

"Mm! I heard that Drosselmeyer will be performing a magic show tonight!"

"A  _show_ , perhaps." Elder Edel gave her a secret smile and Hermia had to bite back a laugh. "But yes, he will be performing. Such is the way with wizards—they seek to amaze, but to amaze, they must lie."

Lie. Hermia's expression fell for a moment. "Ah … by the way, I was wondering if I may—ah, if you're not busy!—if I may confide something to you? About Drosselmeyer and his student?"

Elder Edel lifted a hand, gesturing to continue. "Speak well, but soft."

Hermia lowered her voice as they walked further from the larger crowds. "Well … these past couple of weeks, I haven't been able to really … feel what they feel." She caught herself with a blush, waving her arm awkwardly back and forth. "That is—! I don't mean to  _snoop_  on them or anything like that! It's just … well, it's curious that I can't read anything from them. Not even a little ounce of joy or anger … It's never happened before. But I don't know how. You said, after all, that his magic isn't real, so he wouldn't be able to shut me out, would he?"

There was something unreadable in Elder Edel's eyes just then, but all Hermia felt was the usual calm solemnity and typical cautiousness that she usually had. After she seemed to consider something, Elder Edel spoke, glancing up into the sunny sky. "His magic is real."

Hermia straightened, fully attentive and eyes wide. "... Really?"

"Indeed. His magic is real. But his magic is not truth." Elder Edel's deep eyes grew distant. "A man lies. A man hides beneath his lies. But falsehoods are weighty, and in time, he cannot walk well with such a burden upon his shoulders. His friends will see him hunched and ask, 'Why do you bend forward with such aches?' And he will lie, 'It is nothing. I bear no such aches.' Thus, the burden only grows. Soon, he will not walk at all, under such weight."

Hermia was used to Elder Edel's way with words, but not quite accustomed to decoding them as well as Raven could. He had been under Elder Edel's tutelage for so long, he seemed to comprehend every riddle-like word she recited. Hermia blushed and fell silent, wishing she could understand.

Elder Edel smiled, her wise eyes softening. "Hm. Take ease, Hermia; do not worry, for tonight is one of celebration." The elder glanced about, her expression mildly curious. "My daughter …?"

Slightly grateful for the change in subject, Hermia perked up. "Ah, she's probably around Fakir again! By the lake! Should I go fetch her for you?"

"... No," Elder Edel muttered fondly, "Uzura is safe with him."

—

The lake was still and reflective, mirroring the surrounding hills and mountains so exquisitely that Fakir hardly knew where the water ended and the world began.

He strayed from the sudden burst of activity in the town, deciding to be more productive on his own by the lake. Setting his chair down on the dock, he set about relaxing with a fishing rod. Beside him, on a small, folding table was his book, an inkwell, and a duck-feather quill. Fakir had been there since the early morning, and he still hadn't gotten a single bite.

Fakir was growing more and more impatient the longer time went by. Well, it was still better than being back in town, forced to put up signs and booths for a couple of visiting strangers.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one aggravated by the wizard's presence. Drosselmeyer seemed to constantly be in the mood for  _talking_ , particularly about Fakir's stories ever since little Uzura let it slip that he was a writer. Autor was the one Drosselmeyer should've been talking to; he seemed to utterly  _idolize_  the wizard, and he was far more willing to speak and brag about their shared hobby than Fakir was (though, they had vastly different writing styles, in a way).

Needless to say, it had been a long two weeks.

… But being alone here, in the peace and quiet of the lake with everyone else too busy to drop in on him was … nice.

Fakir found himself smiling, just a little.

Well, since no one else was around, perhaps he could …

Propping the fishing pole on the side of his chair, he reached for his book, flipping it to the next blank page. Taking up the quill and dipping it into the inkwell, he began to write.

_There was once a young writer, sitting by a lake._

His fingertips began to itch and the wind began to shift, the world itself suddenly taking a deep breath with him—as if the entire universe waited to see what happened next.

' _Fresh fish would be a pleasant supper tonight,' thought the young writer, 'I want to catch something quite large. Enough to feed four, at least.'_

Fakir paused there, letting his eyes fall shut and ink dry. He felt the pulse in his body, and the itch in his fingertips grew worse. Good. He opened his eyes and continued, following the flow and the natural progression of his craft.

Story-spinning was a delicate art, after all. Autor might've been able to search the distant past and make it known to the present, but there was a different sort of responsibility and weight to Fakir's abilities.

Bending reality to the will of his quill wasn't as glamorous as it might've sounded.

Still, once in a while, when the universe saw fit to bend to him, it had its perks.

_So, he set about catching something for supper. The line was cast and he waited with bated breath._

Fakir inhaled sharply, realizing that this was it. The junction between what was, and what could be. Every story he wrote had it—the point where fact morphed into possibility, and where Fakir could sway that possibility to his favor.

It didn't always work, but it was worth a shot if he wanted fresh dinner tonight.

_Soon, below the surface of the crystalline lake, something began to stir._

_And then, it bit._

Fakir put down his quill and took up his fishing pole, held his breath, and waited.

For a few suspended moments, he thought that it might not have worked, until there was a sudden tug at the other end of the line. His hand instinctively clenched around the pole and he stood, a smirk playing upon his lips.

He realized with some bit of excitement that this one was a stubborn catch. He yanked harder on the pole, alternating between soft, coaxing pulls, quick reels, and sudden yanks.

Finally, he reeled it in, smirking triumphantly. But just as quickly, his expression fell.

… The fish was tiny and barely big enough for half a meal. He sighed in disappointment. So much for a dinner for four. He turned to send a scowl at the open book on the table, his words staring back at him.

"Ohhhhh! It's so small-zura!"

Fakir turned, softening his gaze when little Uzura's tiny feet pitter-patted on the wooden dock toward him. A little distance behind her was Rue, breathing rather heavily and her pale cheeks red with the exertion of following after such an energetic child. He shook his head when Uzura came to a stop by his side, reaching out to ruffle her mint-green hair. "Really. I hadn't noticed." His sarcasm was soft, though, tempered by a gentle look he reserved only for the five-year-old.

Uzura smiled, shifting around to swing something out from behind her and show him what she brought with her. It was a drum, strapped around her shoulders. "Mama said I can play in the festival with Autor and everyone-zura! I have a drum now-zura!" With a giggle, she began to pound in a disjointed rhythm.

Fakir tried not to make his grimace obvious. He sat down and carefully pulled the hook from the fish. At least the puny thing was better than nothing. So much for honing his abilities. "Alright, alright, just don't get ahead of yourself."

Uzura stopped playing for a moment to beam up at him.

Rue finally caught up, trying to compose herself with deep breaths. Then, she straightened, trying to appear as collected as she could in her breathless state. "Fakir," she began, her hand brushing through her thick hair, "Raven is looking for you. I see you've been skipping out on preparations?" She shook her head. "Shame on you. Everyone else is so busy."

Fakir bit back a groan and rolled his eyes. No doubt it was Autor who pointed his absence out to everyone. The suck-up. "I'll head back now, but I doubt you really need me." Not with how enthusiastic and lively they all were. They had a festival every season; Fakir saw no need to make a bigger deal out of it just because of a couple of magic visitors.

But Raven's word was almost as finite as Elder Edel's at this point. For some reason, Elder Edel had made arrangements in the event of her death—far too early, in Fakir's opinion, but he remained silent over the subject. Raven was to take over as leader until Uzura came of age. And for the most part, Fakir could stand in agreement with the decision; Raven had been like a father to him, and particularly to Rue.

His sister had been too young to remember their parents like Fakir did, noble and kind as they were. Perhaps that was why she clung to Raven as a role model so quickly.

Rue, simpering, crossed her arms over her chest as Uzura padded over to the edge of the dock, cooing in amazement at the water and the swimming fish beneath. "And I suppose you will not be dancing with us on the stage?" Rue inquired, already knowing the answer.

Fakir snorted. "Of course not." What was he? Twelve? He packed his writing tools and book into his satchel and folded up the chair and table. After dumping his meager catch in his nearby bucket, he called back to Uzura, "Hey, grab my bag, will you?"

Rue, not lifting a finger to assist him, only followed as he hefted his chair, table, and bucket into his arms while Uzura scampered after him with her drum slung back behind her and his satchel in her arms. "Everyone will be disappointed."

"No one would care either way," he retorted as they made their way back to the town. "All eyes will be on you."

It wasn't said as a compliment. It was merely a fact. Rue's dance was enchanting in so many ways—she could sway even the most stubborn of people to follow her with a simple twirl. The others could see into the souls of others, perhaps, but not  _sway_ them. She knew, even more than Autor, the heavy burden they carried when they could influence the world.

Elder Edel advised them to take care with their abilities. They were among the most potent, and the most dangerous.

—

The Festival of the Summer Moon was an annual event, held upon the evening of every summer solstice. But there was something in the air that night as the sun began to set and twilight stretched across Wyvern's valley. Something different and magical. Something almost  _final_.

Whatever the case, the Wyvern villagers celebrated in their revelry without cares or concerns. This was a night to enjoy, not to fear. Even now, as dusk began to settle and the lady bugs emerged from their little, flowery homes, glowing like tiny lamps in the distance and celebrating with the sorcerers, excitement and joy filled the hearts of almost everyone.

They gathered all around the town square, Autor at his piano with a wide grin spread across his face in the center of the band that played through the early evening. The streets were lined with booths—games, food, and sweets were aplenty, and Hermia's little love letter booth was quite popular. Freya danced and gave everyone little flower crowns, and Malen offered to commission whatever someone had in "mind," so to say.

Elder Edel walked about, greeting others with amiable and gentle words, Uzura drumming at her side. The little girl had stars in her eyes as she stared up at her mother, excited for things to come.

On the grand stage, Rue danced, enrapturing everyone, particularly Autor. As she moved, he played, and it almost seemed as if he played to the rhythm she set instead of the other way around.

And in the center was Raven, confident and noble, bowing with flourish to all that passed him. He seemed utterly pleased with the festival, as he'd been put in charge of organizing it from the beginning, and he seemed to embrace the responsibilities placed upon him as they came. Elder Edel taught him well, and he was eager to do her proud.

Fakir kept to himself, focusing his attention more on the lady bugs in the distance, their gentle, dancing lights calming his oddly tight nerves. His fingers itched fiercely for some reason, almost begging him to pick up his quill and write  _something_ , but he ignored the sensation—whatever it was could wait, he decided, because it couldn't have been  _that_ important.

It was when the last of the sunlight disappeared beyond the towering, surrounding mountains that the Legendary Grand Wizard, D. D. Drosselmeyer and his protege took the stage, and the excited villagers gathered around to watch his show.

Perhaps the wizard's silly cantrips were mere side-show acts to the enchanted folk with  _true_  power, but they were happy for some new entertainment.

And entertainment, he certainly was. D. D. Drosselmeyer was all about dramatics, it seemed. In his colorful cloak, white gloves, and feathered hat, he swept across the stage with theatrical gusto, his amber eyes swirls of mystery as he caressed the red jewel hanging from his neck. Dressed in red, his protege kept his head down, remaining as his assistant for his acts.

Autor fought for a front-row seat, his eyes wide and his expression enthralled. This was what he had been waiting for—a chance to witness the great works of Drosselmeyer, who he had read so much about.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Wyvern!" Drosselmeyer announced, taking center stage as the lights went dim, but for the spotlight that shined down upon his form. "Your welcome has been most charming and sweet, indeed! Such kindness shall always be awarded, so prepare to  _be amazed_!"

They all laughed, except for Fakir who winced from the sharp pain in his right hand. He scratched his itch and continued to ignore it.

The hour continued. He pulled a toad from within his hat and released it into the laughing crowd; he sawed his protege in half, before restoring him into one piece; he created a large bubble around little Uzura, who squealed with delight before it popped. All the while, Elder Edel sat in front beside Raven, her smile small and her eyes cool.

At last, the final act had come. A hush had claimed the crowd, and even the soft, light giggles of the lady bugs in the far distance grew silent.

"Alas," the wizard began with exaggerated somberness, "do you not think that all great things must come to an end? Ah, but why have it so? What is the true tragedy? A beginning without an end, or an end to a beautiful beginning?"

The villagers began to glance between one another, wondering where the wizard was going with this.

Elder Edel's eyes narrowed.

Drosselmeyer chuckled, his voice grinding like gravel, and he brought his gloved hand to rest on the red jewel around his neck. "But, let us agree, good Wyvern citizens, borne of Dragon and Fae, that  _all_  tragedies are beautiful. And such comical tragedies can only be delivered by an exceptional weaver of tales."

Fakir's hand  _ached_ , and he grit his teeth in pain.

The audience began to grow restless at Drosselmeyer's words, and Elder Edel was already standing up, pushing Uzura behind her and into Hermia's arms.

"So,  _story-spinner_  …"

Though his fingertips burned (as if his body begged desperately for a quill now more than ever), Fakir glanced up, his green eyes widening in horror as Drosselmeyer addressed him from the stage, even in Fakir's dark corner at the back of the audience.

And for all who were present, it felt as though time had stopped.

"... Shall I weave your tale for you?"

With a flick of his wrist, the jewel around his neck burst with a crimson light, a beam of blood-red brilliance shooting out toward Fakir. The audience gasped, the radiance bypassing all until the light shined on Fakir's form.

With a searing burn and a harsh, resounding  _rip_ , the beam sliced into Fakir's torso, from the left of his navel to the right shoulder, and all but tore him apart.

No one breathed. Even as Fakir fell to the ground, no one could move.

That is, until Fakir released an earth-shattering bellow, smashing through the frozen glass that was everyone's shock and terror.

They all screamed, Rue and others immediately reaching for Fakir's form, blood gushing from his violent wound. Others, Raven and Elder Edel included, rushed toward the stage, their eyes sharp and angered. Autor remained frozen in place, pale and horrified, while Hermia cried out in Fakir's pain, clinging to Uzura and keeping the little girl's eyes away from the panic around them.

But Monty, Drosselmeyer's protege, was faster than them all. In a shocking array of true magic, the wizard's assistant swiped his arm, releasing a blast of force that surrounded the stage. Raven and the others could not push through. Even as Elder Edel had casted her spells, they simply could not penetrate the shield that Monty had created.

Drosselmeyer laughed. "Such a  _tragedy_!" And as Monty continued to guard him, the wizard waved his arm in Fakir's direction.

Gasping and choking, Fakir stared up at the sky with blank, green eyes, barely able to hear the sounds of Rue's panicked, broken sobs. The itch in his hand dissipated entirely—like it was never there.

He felt something leave him. And he felt an emptiness that he didn't know existed.

Above him, everyone watched in abject dismay as a strange, white orb floated from his shredded, bleeding torso. It was a warm light, surrounded by what looked to be transluscent feathers—perhaps quills, some realized with misery. And in an instant, it zoomed away from Fakir's limp form, through the force field, and into Drosselmeyer's hand.

He laughed again, chilling and joyful.

They all could only watch helplessly as Monty opened a book before the wizard, offering the madman a quill.

Drosselmeyer wrote.

_Once upon a time, there was a little town full of people so desperate for entertainment. "I can entertain you!" said a good wizard with a happy grin. "Let me!"_

_So they gifted upon him a power so divine and so wonderful for him to use. "I shall give you the entertainment of many lifetimes!" he said. "For 300 years, you will enjoy my gifts! And see your true talents!_

" _Until the Raven constellation aligns in 300 years, you will laugh, and laugh, and laugh!"_

Already, the tale began to take shape, and Fakir's final breath left him.

Elder Edel's blue eyes were sharp and her lips thin, even as all around her, her beloved people crumpled to the ground. One by one, their Draconic blood choked their veins, their muscles twitching and groans growing more desperate.

Uzura began to whimper behind her.

It was with that that she lifted her arms into the air, her eyes closing. With all of the sorcery she could muster, calling upon her Fae blood to aid her, she whispered her own enchantment.

" _For 300 years, it shall be, then. Under my branches, you will live_ —"

The village began to sink slowly into the ground, Monty and Drosselmeyer's eyes growing wide as the stage went with it. "What is this?!" the wizard cried, panicked and frantic. Monty moved quickly once more, waving his red cape to spirit himself and his master away to safety.

All the while, Elder Edel continued, her lifted hands growing wooden, turning into sprawling twigs and branches.

"— _under my roots, you will smile_ —"

A burst of white light surrounded the sorceress, covering her people and soothing them from their torturous transformations. They fell into a peaceful slumber as the ground continued to slip down, down,  _down_.

"— _and with my fruit, you will heal_ —"

Fakir's lifeless form glowed softly, warmly, like a beacon of light to comfort his cold form as it mended itself.

It was only her last words that everyone heard in their slumbering minds, and they dreamed of dragons and lady bugs and Elder Edel's smile.

" _With this promise, I leave you now. When I bear fruit again, the world will be yours once more._ "

—

Drosselmeyer and Monty stood at the edge of the valley—but what was once green with a small town, was now pure white, with a barren, lofty, white oak in the center.

The wizard pouted. "Such a tragedy! Well, I suppose it cannot be helped! We can certainly use this to our advantage! For what is tragedy without a little hope to take away from them, yes? Monty! My book, please! I must add a bit of a flourish to my little tale!"

_Much to their dismay, the good wizard said, "Ah, but the fun must end, sometime! Find the one who bears my blood_ — _find the last of my family tree! At the end of 300 years, she will be the one to bring an end to your fun!_

" _Sacrifices must be made. Spill her blood, spill her life, and your precious tree will bear fruit!"_

* * *

Ahiru fell off of her chair, her body shaking, cold sweat dripping down her brow.

She didn't know—she had no idea—how was she supposed to—?!

She felt it all with them. She watched everything play out. She was witness to her own ancestor ruin the lives of an exceptional group of people. And she could do nothing to stop it.

Scrambling to her feet, her vision blurring with tears, she burst into a sprint, running for Freya's hut and ignoring the rocks on the bottoms of her feet.

Her chest hurt. Her heart ached.

Without any preamble or hesitation, she dashed straight into Freya's hut. At some point, Freya must've left, but she didn't care to notice that much.

All she could do was collapse next to the unconscious Fakir, blubbering, sobbing, tears running freely down her freckled cheeks as she clutched helplessly to his sheets.

It all made sense. Perfect, horrific sense.

"... I-I'm  _sorry_  …!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Docktor Locktor


	7. Bolero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rue resumed brushing, but slower this time. Her tone lightened, nostalgic and whimsical. " … I remember how lively Wyvern once was. There were so many of us back then, still together and still happy."
> 
> Ahiru's eyes widened. She hadn't noticed it until now, but Rue was right. In that vision, she witnessed an entire village teeming with such life and abuzz with activity. Now, perhaps half or less remained here underground, and she was suddenly afraid to ask what happened to the others.
> 
> Rue took it upon herself to go on. "After that night, once we recovered and came to terms with … our situation and what Edel had done for us, some wondered the same as you do now—perhaps Elder Edel's sacrifice truly did save us from our fate. It wasn't as if anything kept us down here, right?" Ahiru felt Rue gather her long hair at the nape of her neck, parting it into three sections to braid. Rue's voice sounded far away. "The first to leave was a good friend of mine. Her name was Giselle."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for taking the time to read! Please leave any comments you may have. I'd really appreciate any feedback! Enjoy!

Prince Siegfried felt ill despite his dignified posture in his seat across from Prince Femio and his collection of colorfully-dressed and lavishly-decorated advisors. They congregated in the conference hall, Karon to his right and General Lysander to his left, an assemblage of Siegfried's own councilmen lined up opposite from the Rungholtan company.

Montand whispered into Femio's ear. With a nod, the Rungholtan Prince cleared his throat, waving his hand nonchalantly. "Of course peace is our priority! My kingdom deserves only the best!" He looked to his advisors, Montand in particular, before nodding and continuing on. "So, let us settle this, my fellow prince! I will gladly take your prisoners off of your hands in the name of our blessed alliance!"

"For the last time," Prince Siegfried insisted, biting back a sigh, "Our prisoners are there to be rehabilitated, not to be punished. We have no place for slaves in Vinetian culture; you will not find them here." He exchanged a tired glance with Karon.

Prince Femio pouted for a moment as he considered Prince Siegfried's words. Once again, he turned to his left toward Montand, absorbed his advisor's quiet words, and cleared his throat. "Well, to be certain, humans are the  _most_ valuable resource!" He shook out his plum-colored hair, a smile returning to his face. "A teacher, for example! His job is to educate the masses! So, a teacher is a tool, do you not agree? Then what use is a vagrant to you? Allow us to change them into the useful tools they can be!"

Prince Siegfried's fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, but he remained silent for the moment while the other prince babbled on.

"Take my own capital city, for example! Our vagrants and criminals are  _repurposed_ —with their work in textile mills and factories, we are flourishing! We can offer you so much of our exquisite pieces! Pottery, silks—far superior to anything you've seen!"

Prince Siegfried was never known to be a particularly vain sort of man, but he couldn't help but be incensed by Prince Femio's veiled criticism of Vinetian products.

It had been enough that he returned to his home with the bodies of some of his most trusted men, having to face their families personally. It had been enough that he was forced to turn back without his fiancee, still unable to verify her safety. However, to arrive in the Grand Chateau only to face the egocentric Rungholtan prince on top of everything else pushed him dangerously close to the breaking point.

A sharp pain shot through Siegfried's chest, and he gripped his armrest again to keep himself from clawing at his torso. Stress pains. They must've been stress pains.

Karon, seemingly picking up on his prince's unease, stepped in on his behalf. "Your Highnesses, accompanying gentlemen, we've been working through this for hours now. Regrettably, I doubt we will be coming to an agreement today."

Prince Femio visibly deflated, but his advisors (Montand, in particular) remained stone-faced.

"Might I suggest we call for a continuance?" Karon forced out as amiably as he could muster. Secretly grateful for this, Siegfried subtly released a breath and threw a grateful glance in Karon's direction.

The Rungholtans leaned in toward their prince with hushed murmurs. This was a regular occurrence, it seemed, and Siegfried began to doubt that Femio was capable of coming to a conclusion or decision on his own at all. Finally, Femio straightened and grinned, resting a hand over his heart with a bow of his head. "Agreed! Then, in the meantime, we must prepare for the celebration!"

Imperceptibly, the Vinetian side of the large table marginally dropped their shoulders in dismay. "The celebration," Siegfried repeated to clarify as politely as he possibly could in his exhausted state.

"The celebration!" Femio leaned back dramatically, draped his arm across the back of Montand's chair, and lounged in front of them. "Undoubtedly, to commemorate my stay and our fruitful endeavors, you  _must_ have planned a grand gala for your people! They may finally have the greatest distinction of being blessed with my presence!" He laughed with a delicate "ho-ho!" behind his hand, only for his expression to melt into one of intense agony. "Alas, those poor maidens who will inevitably wish for my heart will only be met with disappointment and heartbreak—woe is _me_ , for I can never share myself with only  _one_!"

Siegfried fought the urge to scowl. Wouldn't it have been wonderful to be truly loved by one? Was that not enough?

It was apparent that Femio knew not the importance of deep love. Not the sort of "love" born from prestige or birthright, but a genuine affection and admiration thriving from a real connection.

Truly, the only celebration that Siegfried wanted was one that rejoiced in his beloved fiancee's safe return.

As Femio continued to blabber on about himself and matters of love and ladies, Siegfried let his eyes fall shut and took a deep breath. To snub the spoiled Rungholtan prince and refuse to sanction a ball in his honor wouldn't be the best course of action in the middle of their precarious dealings, but would bending to the will of such a silly ruler mark Siegfried as some sort of catering coward?

He lifted his gaze to meet Karon's, trying not to appear as weary as he felt. The crows' feet and stress lines along Karon's face were deep and tired. When Siegfried turned to his left, General Lysander was pale, with dark, shadowy bags hanging heavy beneath his eyes.

Siegfried's chest continued to pang with fierce insistence, but he spoke clearly and carefully when Femio's ramblings finally tapered off. "... We will  _not_  host any galas before properly burying our dead."

"... Ah." Femio's expression softened somewhat, much to Siegfried's surprise. "... Of course. We must honor your loyal knights and their sacrifices in such a dreadful time as this—!"

Montand leaned in with another hushed whisper into Prince Femio's ear. Karon and Siegfried shared, once again, a significant glance.

When Montand pulled away, Prince Femio blinked and cleared his throat. "That is—do as you will, then, but do know that we will be impatiently waiting! Honestly, this hardly reflects well upon your state of affairs!"

As if it wasn't readily apparent.

The meeting came to a polite, yet abrupt close after that, with firm handshakes and a flip of Prince Femio's hair. The Rungholtans excused themselves and flittered off to take part in casual games of badminton with other servants, leaving the Vinetian councilmen, Karon, Lysander, and Siegfried to themselves in the conference hall.

As soon as the conference hall quieted, Prince Siegfried stood from his seat, turning toward the tall window at the end of the room in an attempt to conceal the way he clawed at his tunic. His chest pierced and gnawed. It was suffocatingly difficult to breathe …

"Are you alright, Your Highness?" Karon asked, his voice soft now that their negotiations were at an end.

"—Yes, yes, I'm alright. Just tired." Siegfried forced himself to straighten and turn to look over his shoulder with as comforting of a look as he could manage. It wouldn't do to show such weaknesses. Not now. Not when they'd lost some of their best men, not when they needed to come from a position of strength to Rungholt, and certainly not when his fiancee was still missing.

His heart clenched further at the thought, but he refused to display it.

The tension was stifling, each man afraid to breach the silence with their collective worries. Siegfried knew there was too much to consider, especially in his current state.

Somehow, he believed that if Ahiru was by his side, he could handle it all. His eyes fell shut, his heart soothed by thoughts of her sweet smile, her kind eyes, her gracious and polite manner …

He pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window, gold eyes distant and lost. "General Lysander," he sighed, breath fogging the clear surface, "please dispatch what men you can spare to the northern regions. Equip them well and advise them to carefully and cautiously investigate the forested areas; perhaps Lady Ahiru is held captive among the bandits. I will not yet be able to join them in the search for her."

Lysander's voice was heavy. "... Aye, Your Highness. It shall be done."

"And Karon?" The prince took a deep, shuddering breath. "Call for the physician as soon as the funerals are concluded. I'm feeling rather unwell, and it's best if I'm in better shape for the weeks to come."

"Of course, Your Highness. I—"

"For now, I'd like to be left alone."

"But, Your Highness—!"

" _Now_."

Behind the prince, Lysander and Karon exchanged worried glances, the other councilmen visibly astonished by Siegfried's curt impatience. Thankfully, no one protested to the prince's command. They each stood from his seat and bowed to Siegfried, but he unnerved them with his lack of acknowledgement. He merely remained by the window, his gaze far away and blankly staring down into the empty gardens below.

As the room emptied completely, Siegfried realized that he never was able to stroll with Ahiru through those gardens. He wanted to lead her through the hedge maze by a gentle hand, to the gazebo and the grand fountain in the center. They would've partaken in pastries and tea (instead of the sweets being offered to Prince Femio), exchanged pleasantries and learned more about one another.

Perhaps they could have danced, as well. She must've been an elegant dancer.

He wanted to shrug off every other responsibility that weighed down on his heavy shoulders. He wanted to mount his Pegasus, take to the skies and not return until she was safe in his arms.

Siegfried straightened his posture despite the burdensome ache in his chest, and instead of flying out through the doors to find Ahiru as he so desired, he dusted off his embroidered tunic, took a composing breath, and turned around. It was time to organize several funerals and, regrettably, a grand ball in Prince Femio's honor.

The usual life and vitality in Prince Siegfried's golden eyes dimmed into a dull, pink emptiness.

* * *

Ahiru wept for a good, long while. In fact, she stayed by Fakir's bedside until she cried herself to sleep, tearstained cheeks and hiccuping sobs muffled into his sheets.

She dreamed of blessedly happy things. Pique and Lilie excitedly burst into her bedroom to help her dress for the day in a flurry of excited rambles and enthusiastic giggles; Miss Raetsel and Mister Karon led her out to the gardens as white lace and tulle trailed after her in an elegant train; Prince Siegfried, her Mytho, stood at the end of the aisle, looking radiant and adoring as the wedding march echoed in her ears.

She dreamed of Wyvern, the little town never having been dragged beneath the ground. Hermia, Freya, Malen, and Rue were all together in the square, laughing and dancing and drawing with flowers all around; Raven stood proudly among his people beside a smirking Autor; Elder Edel cradled little Uzura in her arms, strolling beneath the sunlight with peace in her countenance; Fakir sat by the lake with his fishing pole, writing, and catching a big one.

She dreamed of her father, blue-eyed and strong with an expression full of mirth and freckles. She dreamed of her mother, demure, lovely, eloquent, and utterly regal, yet always,  _always_  so magically warm. And she dreamed of their embrace—she dreamed of curling up beside them, and never needing to wake.

If only.

Ahiru stirred, wincing from the tightness in her muscles and the kink in her neck. With a sleepy blush, she wiped her saliva from her chin, rubbed her puffy eyes, and sat up from her hunched position on her knees.

Freya's hut was lit with only a small candle, the flickering light casting shadows across the walls and reflecting off the dusty surfaces of the many jars and containers in the room. Before her, Fakir still slept, his wing twitching idly, its shadow large and imposing behind him.

But he seemed a bit more peaceful now. At least there was that.

She didn't find it in her to stand just yet and settled for turning around to press her back against the bed and sit on the ground. Mildly surprised when she felt the sudden shift of light cloth, she found that someone draped a thin blanket over her shoulders while she slept, and a bowl of food had been placed beside her. Even her scrapes had been wrapped, her feet bandaged and cleaned, and the gash on her temple tended to.

It served as a brutal reminder that the people who had taken her were … not bad people.

In fact, they had been wronged. Dreadfully, violently, horrifically wronged. And the one who wronged them was Ahiru's own ancestor.

Would Mytho still want her … if he knew what sort of blood ran through her veins?

She drew her knees to her chest, trying to fight back tears. She wasn't hungry, but she was suddenly cold and brought the blanket around her shoulders with a shiver. Unbidden, she found herself turning to look at Fakir's resting form once more.

Some of the scales sank back into his skin, and when she really looked at it, she noticed that the wings shrunk down a bit. The harsh, suffering lines that marred his face before had eased, and he looked almost at peace—like he had when he was sitting in front of that lake with his fishing pole and his quill, almost three centuries ago.

She never would've guessed. He looked so youthful, with his richly tanned skin, dark hair, and angled, strong features—perhaps only a couple of years older than herself, even if he was far taller than her. They  _all_ appeared so young and moved with such energy. The idea that they'd been alive for so long was unfathomable.

And considering that they'd been  _underground_ the entire time, she was certain that their suffering continued even now. They were stuck down here for three hundred—

—But … that wasn't right, was it? They weren't stuck down here. Not really.

_Fakir was in Vineta_. Ahiru lifted her head as the realization dawned on her.  _When he kidnapped me, he was definitely above ground! So … what's keeping them here?_

Ahiru stared at Fakir, her lips pursing with newfound determination, willing him to open his eyes and give her answers. For all of their suffering, and for all of the terrible things she'd just found out about her heritage, there were still missing pieces to this puzzle. She wasn't ready to just roll over and accept what was going to happen to her. Not until she knew all of the facts!

Maybe there was some sort of loophole! Maybe they still didn't tell her everything!

Ahiru braced herself to stand, but before she could sit up from her hunched position, Rue suddenly swept into the hut, balancing a basin of water and a washcloth in her arms. They startled one another, Ahiru uncertain and Rue uncomfortable.

Ahiru bit her lip, brushing back a strand of red hair behind her ear as Rue stepped up to Fakir's side, intent on ignoring her. Helplessly watching, Ahiru lowered her chin to her knees while Rue dipped the washcloth into the water, and then reached out to dab Fakir's forehead and brush the sweat from his brow. The silence was stifling. Maybe Rue was still angry with her for starting that whole fight before, and injuring Fakir so badly.

If she felt guilty before for causing such destruction, she certainly felt worse now that she had become terrifyingly aware of what they'd all gone through. It became harder and harder to blame her kidnappers for anything, even if what they'd done still wasn't right.

… But what  _was_  right anymore?

Antsy and needing to fill the silence with  _something_ , Ahiru spoke up in a low, unsure tone. "Um … thank you … for the blanket. And the food."

"That wasn't me," Rue countered dismissively, tending to Fakir and continuing to avoid eye contact with Ahiru, "Thank Hermia and Freya. They worried over you after hearing you've seen Autor's story."

"Oh …" That story wasn't really a story, though. That story was history itself— _her own history_. A history that never arose before and now threatened her entire existence and the lives of the people in this town. She didn't just watch. She lived it with them. Ahiru curled up further, tightening her grip around her legs and pulling the blanket taut around her form. What could she possibly say to Rue after all of that? "That was all so—I didn't mean for—" She bit her lip, finally settling on the words she deemed to be the most important right now. "... Will Fakir be okay?"

Rue seemed mildly surprised by the inquiry and placed the washcloth back into the basin, finally glancing up to meet Ahiru's gaze. Once again, Ahiru was stricken by her beauty—sad and tired in a way that reminded her of a forlorn queen. "Freya assured us that he is healing well." Rue turned her nose up, a sardonic smile touching her lips. "The fool. He is as reckless as always."

Ahiru, comforted by the slight-but-certainly-there opening that Rue had given her, earnestly sat up, lips firming in worry. "It was to help me. I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to cause—" She shook her head, emotion spilling from her words. "I didn't mean for  _any_ of this to happen—!"

"Shhh." Rue brought a finger to her lips, eyebrows furrowing. "Calm down. You'll wake him."

"Ah … sorry …"

Rue stood in thought for a moment, though Ahiru couldn't even begin to guess what was going through the woman's mind. At least she didn't seem angry with her anymore.

It was all so complicated. She shouldn't have felt remorse for upsetting her kidnappers. But things were different now, weren't they?

Too many gray areas.

Finally, Rue's expression lightened somewhat, softening as she crossed the room to place the basin onto Freya's table. "... I had never seen someone stop in the middle of a transformation. And in the chaos, you chose to help him. How? And why?"

Ahiru answered truthfully. "I don't know. It just sorta happened, and he was in pain and if he turned into a dragon just after Autor turned into one, then that would've been big trouble for everybody and it looked like he was doing his best to fight it, so I thought that someone had to be there to talk him out of it, and I didn't know it would actually  _work,_ but someone had to do something—!"

"Talkative, aren't you? I suppose I should thank you, then, for … whatever it is you did."

"... I'm glad that it … didn't turn out worse!"

"... I'm glad as well. There have been … incidents in the past."

From somewhere among the plethora of vials, jars, and baskets that littered the shelves, Rue pulled out a small, clean brush. "You look like a mess. Come here." She dragged a stool out from beneath the table and patted the surface.

Ahiru blinked, glancing cluelessly back and forth between Rue's face and the stool a few times.

The woman raised an eyebrow, frowning impatiently. "Well?"

"Ah! Sorry!" Ahiru scrambled to her feet as quietly as she could, attempting to untangle her legs from the blanket without tripping over herself.

"Calm down, would you? Sit."

Obediently, Ahiru plopped down onto the stool, and let Rue begin to work through the tangles of her hair. She didn't realize just how matted and coarse her long tresses became over the trials and tribulations of the past couple of days, and it relaxed her to have it finally tended to.

Pique loved doing her hair. Ever since childhood, Pique would giggle as she pinned and piled curls of red onto Ahiru's head after a good brush-through. "If only I had your hair!" she would say, "There's so much I'd do with it, it's so long and pretty!"

For a while, Ahiru wanted to cut it short like the elegant style her mother wore, but Pique and Lilie simply wouldn't have it. "You would never pull off the look like your mother can~!" Lilie gushed dramatically, "Best to stay just as you are, silly and awkward Lady Ahiru~!"

She missed them fiercely. She wanted so badly to see them again.

Ahiru glanced up, watching the rise and fall of Fakir's steady breaths from across the room as Rue worked the brush from the roots to the ends. The tension eased. Perhaps this would be a good opportunity to bring it up. "Um … Rue?"

"Hm?"

How could she breach this subject? "Ah … are there … other things I don't know yet? I mean, it doesn't seem like you're all really  _trapped_  here, are you …? Fakir was in Vineta when he took me, so you  _are_  able to leave, right?" She felt Rue pause mid-brush. "I just—! I'm just trying to learn all that I can! If I know more, then maybe there's a way—I just want to make sure that—so much has happened and I don't really know how to explain what I'm thinking or how I'm feeling, but I know that I have to do my best … !"

Across the room, Fakir stirred in his sleep. Ahiru clapped her hands over her mouth and Rue sighed. "I said, hush. It's fine. No one can blame you."

Ahiru blushed. Of course no one could blame her Why did she feel so bashful about answers she deserved to have? Why did nothing make any sense anymore? "So … why are you all still down here?" she ventured, keeping her shrill voice down this time for Fakir's sake.

Rue resumed brushing, but slower this time. Her tone lightened, nostalgic and whimsical. " … I remember how lively Wyvern once was. There were so many of us back then, still together and still happy."

Ahiru's eyes widened. She hadn't noticed it until now, but Rue was right. In that vision, she witnessed an entire village teeming with such life and abuzz with activity. Now, perhaps half or less remained here underground, and she was suddenly afraid to ask what happened to the others.

Rue took it upon herself to go on. "After that night, once we recovered and came to terms with … our situation and what Edel had done for us, some wondered the same as you do now—perhaps Elder Edel's sacrifice truly did save us from our fate. It wasn't as if anything kept us down here, right?" Ahiru felt Rue gather her long hair at the nape of her neck, parting it into three sections to braid. Rue's voice sounded far away. "The first to leave was a good friend of mine. Her name was Giselle."

Was …? Ahiru bit her lip. "What happened to her?"

"... She was a free spirit. One of the few who ventured away from Wyvern before our curse fell upon us. She asked me many times if I would go with her. I … I never did."

Rue braided with precision and continued speaking when Ahiru couldn't find it in herself to respond. "Somewhere in her travels, she met a man, and fell in love. Her visits with him became more and more frequent through the years, and she left Wyvern more often than not.

"One day, Giselle returned home, weeping. I never did find out exactly why; she never told me, and I never asked. Until Drosselmeyer came to our village, she refrained from leaving again."

Ahiru's heart sunk into her stomach, already imagining the spirited young woman who loved so deeply and lived so freely. It was the sort of way Ahiru wanted to live her life as well … until her family history recently caught up with her.

"... You have such long hair," Rue suddenly mused.

"A-Ah … I always kept it long, yeah! I thought about cutting it, but …"

"Don't. It's quite pretty this way."

A blush bloomed across Ahiru's freckled nose. Such a compliment coming from such a beauty like Rue … Ahiru didn't know how to react. She was also reminded of Pique and Lilie, and a strange sense of peace washed over her for the first time since her kidnapping. "Oh … thank you! I'm glad you think so …?"

"I  _do_ think so."

The room fell into silence as Rue worked her way down, braiding the long locks carefully and tightly. Then, her story continued. "Drosselmeyer cursed us. The pain of transformation took hold of us on that first night, and it was only Edel's intervention that saved us from destroying ourselves at once. Perhaps that was what Drosselmeyer originally wanted. She did what she could to protect her people. She … did her very best.

"We thought she saved us entirely. But, if we lost our tempers or composure, there was always the possibility of losing control of our minds and changing into those monsters you saw. We learned this the hard way—we lost people. You know, there used to be four more levels in our village."

Ahiru's mouth went dry.

"So, naturally, quite a few of us wanted to leave. But if we remained composed, learned to temper ourselves and our emotions, then how could we go wrong? We thought we simply gained the ability to change into powerful beasts. The world could belong to us, because of our Elder's sacrifice.

"Giselle smiled at me one day. She told me that now was the best time to see the world, and to not be afraid because we were given a second chance by our Elder. She told me that she would find love again, and that it was so worth having and seeking out. And she left."

Rue tied off the end of Ahiru's long braid with a ribbon borrowed from one of Freya's baskets. "One by one, villagers began to follow suit. Over the years, we considered doing the same. But Elder Raven had his suspicions, and forbid the rest of us, we, the loyal ones, to leave. You see, we began to realize that … time had stopped for us. Only for us. Our bodies … were not aging. Our minds remained stagnant. Uzura never grew. We could not move forward. And I think Elder Raven knew that leaving Wyvern would not save us from this perpetual sameness."

Rue's voice tapered off, as if she was in another place and time altogether. Perhaps she was, in her mind.

"A decade went by, and none of us changed.

"Finally, he asked Autor to use his power to find out what happened to the others, gather more information on the nature of our curse. Perhaps we'd had been wrong. Maybe the key  _was_  to leave and follow our people."

Ahiru hadn't even noticed that Rue was finished with her hair until she saw the woman cross the room to sit by Fakir's bedside. And her eyes widened, never having seen such a mournful expression on Rue's face before. It made Ahiru's heart ache anew, remorse and realization flooding her. "I … I guess the key …  _wasn't_ to leave? You needed to stay?"

Rue slowly nodded her head as she checked Fakir's bandages. "Mm. Autor soon discovered the fates of the people who decided to go.

"Exactly twenty-one days after leaving Wyvern, Giselle disappeared in a flash of light."

Ahiru's lips parted in dismay and she wrung her hands in her skirt. "A flash of light? Just … just like that?"

"... Yes. Autor kept writing about each and every single one of them. And each time we read a new story, we watched as exactly three weeks passed, and our people simply vanished. No trace of their existence, except in our memories.

"Elder Raven had been right all along. They never should have left. We should  _always_ trust in his judgment."

"So … you only get … three weeks above ground before you all …?"

"Later," Rue interrupted, quiet and contemplating, almost as if she hadn't even heard Ahiru at all, "Autor decided to search into our past and rewrite, verbatim, Drosselmeyer's curse. The fine print, the details, the manuscript we didn't see.

"Three seems to be the magic number. Three weeks above ground and we disappear in a flash of light.

"And in three centuries, at the completion of a certain constellation, we either sacrifice you, or we, the rest of us, the final survivors, disappear in a flash of light."

Blood running cold, Ahiru almost fell off of her chair. The gravity of their story weighed heavily upon Ahiru's already slumping shoulders, the dismal reality like cold ice in the heat of her former optimism. Aging eluded them, freedom escaped them, and death—no, a lack of existence itself—awaited them. These people were utterly trapped, both down here and within themselves.

In the grand scheme of things, Ahiru's life looked so small in comparison

Rue watched Ahiru's reaction carefully, before lightening her tone just a bit and continuing on.

"Elder Raven forbid us to never leave here unless out of necessity. Just in case we accidentally surpassed those three weeks. In fact, he only sent Fakir out every so often in these past couple of decades to find  _you_. When Fakir brought you home to us, it was nearing the end of his twenty-one days. Uzura and I grew so worried for him during his absence. I was frightened I would lose two important people in a silly flash of light."

It was strange to think, looking back on it now. The entire time Fakir had been searching for Drosselmeyer's final descendant, he was also keeping track of the time he had before he needed to return, and then head out again. How frightening of a thought it was, not knowing how far to search before needing to come back.

What if he had gotten lost …? What if he had just been a couple of days late …? Ahiru let her gaze wander back to Fakir, still resting while Rue sat beside him.

What if they never were able to find her? They would simply disappear? Just like that? And Ahiru never would've known that she was responsible …?

They all were on borrowed time, herself included.

"Until the curse is broken," Rue ventured, almost carelessly, "as Elder Raven said, I will never leave this place, and I will not let Fakir leave again either. But … sometimes, I reread Autor's story about Giselle. Even in the end, encompassed by light, she was smiling. I think she thought that love was worth it—simply having it once was enough for her. And I wonder if finding such a thing would do her memory justice. If I had one wish for myself when this curse is broken, then it is to feel that very thing in which she believed so deeply and so passionately."

It sounded like something Ahiru's mother would've said once. It was a feeling worth living for and fighting for. Rue believed in it, Giselle believed in it, her mother believed in it.

She let her mind wander back to Mytho, who must have been so worried, with his gentle eyes and noble heart …

Ahiru leaped up to her feet before she could stop herself, the words tumbling in a mess from her lips. "Maybe there's another way! I—" but was that selfish of her to say? Was she being too self-serving? They were just as worried for their own lives as she was, but—! "... I have a prince—he'd never be able to know what happened to me—is there a way I can just look over things? Maybe I can see Autor's story again! See if we missed anything! I … I want to help everyone, but I'm—!"

Rue lifted a hand to stop her. "My, you're quite  _excitable_ , aren't you?" Her nose turned up again, and it seemed that Rue's usual haughtiness had returned. "Settle down. I'm sure you're free to investigate as much as you want, and I know you must want to return to your prince, but I assure you that any possible alternatives simply don't exist. We have been analyzing his story for almost three hundred years now."

Ahiru refused to let her hope be extinguished. Not this time. "Please, I just want to find out for myself! Up until now, I've been begging for answers, and I have them now, but maybe the trick is for me to find my own! R-Right?! I don't know what I can do, but …"

Rue's frown deepened. "... Fine. Do what you want. But … you must know that, in the end, we do intend on breaking this curse. Don't forget that."

How could Ahiru forget such a thing? It was all she could think about.

The only answer couldn't have been through sacrifice. There had to be something else.

… Right?

"I know. So … where do I start?"

"Fakir's hut." Rue stood from her seat on his bed, clasping her hands in front of her. "I'll show you."

* * *

A little less than a week had passed since the conference between the two princes ended in an impasse. The funerals conducted without incident. The knights were given heroes' burials, and their families received their posthumous honors.

Prince Siegfried stared at himself in the mirror, not even attempting to mask his exhaustion and bitterness from his own reflection. His servants garbed him in his finest: a blue tunic hemmed with embroidered gold, a collar of white feathers, and white hosiery beneath white trousers. The picture of nobility and dignity, Prince Siegfried certainly looked the part of the handsome, gracious host to visiting royalty.

He was saving this outfit for the ball announcing his engagement to Lady Ahiru, Duchess of Hedeby. Still, no word returned from the soldiers he sent out in search of her.

Karon entered Siegfried's chamber, likewise dressed in his best and appearing quite grim himself. "Are you ready, Your Highness?"

"No," he replied with an acerbic smile, "But I must try."

After these past few days, he'd grown used to the constant, dull ache in his chest, so standing straight and appearing presentable wasn't as difficult as it was when the pains first began. Once Prince Femio finally took leave of his country, Siegfried would be sure to consult his physician.

For now, there were "celebrations" to be had.

He made his way down the halls and grand staircases of the Chateau, and stopped at the entrance to the vast ballroom. Guests had already been admitted into the circular chamber that was lined with windows to allow the moonlight to filter in. The chandelier's light bounced off its crystals and danced along the white walls and marble pillars. Tables brimming with fine meats, fruits, and pastries lined up on one side of the hall while the musicians sat on ornate chairs across the floor, sliding their bows along strings and covering flute holes with their fingertips. Couples danced merrily, people conversed excitedly, and all partook in the party's dinner offerings. Ultimately, Raetsel and Ebine had outdone themselves.

And Karon did well to organize and invite the villagers along with the families of his advisors. Every gala Siegfried held was an open one—any celebration worth having in the Grand Chateau would always be shared with his beloved people. Though one could easily discern a person's station by the amount of finery they wore, each and every one of them was treated with the same respect from his servants and the patrolling knights (both likewise welcome to enjoy the festivities at any time). Though Siegfried was hardly in the mood for a ball, at the very least this party conveniently displayed Vineta's respect for those who worked under others to the Rungholtans. Siegfried's country was not, and never would be, a country that promoted slavery.

Overall, the pristine beauty and sophistication of the ball impressed all who attended, and it was a sight that would've taken Lady Ahiru's breath away had she been here to see it with Siegfried.

He imagined that the ball was in her honor, with her on his arm, appearing lovely in a white gown and gracefully sweeping into a waltz …

The prince held his head high as he descended the staircase and into the ballroom, his presence announced by Karon. The crowd collectively paused all celebration to turn to him and bow or curtsy. He lifted a hand and smiled to signal them to continue on.

Poised and regal, he strolled with hands folded behind him, greeting his guests. Several of his councilmen approached to introduce him to their families, all of whom Siegfried referred to by name, but he made certain to take time to say hello to the villagers as well.

It didn't take long for him to regret that decision.

"Oh, Your Highness!" some cried, "Have you been able to locate your lovely fiancee?"

"She was such a delight to meet! Is she safe?"

"I do hope she is well and protected!"

"Lady Ahiru! Will she be attending tonight? Has she been saved?"

"What a shame, Your Highness … I pray for her return!"

With every excitable inquiry, Siegfried's heart sunk further and further, pulling apart in his chest. The dull ache was fresh all over again. He forced out polite smiles (weak, but suitable enough) before politely excusing himself to the edges of the party.

Thankfully, Prince Femio took it upon himself to enter in his grandiose way at that moment. The doors flew open as Karon announced the Rungholtan prince's arrival, a hush flying over the crowd as Femio's royal bull marched into the room, hooves clopping against the marble floors. His trumpeters and flute-players flanked him once again as Montand fanned rose petals into the air and across the ground. And draped across the bull's back was Femio, arching backward and posing with the toes of one of his feet pointed in the air and his arms held out on either side of him. A rose stem sat between his teeth, and he winked toward Pique and Lilie. The girls proceeded to duck behind one of the dessert tables to hide.

The bull trotted to the center of the room as Femio's fanfare came to a thunderous close. He swung his legs to the side and leaped from the bull's back, landing into a twirl and then an impassioned bow. It astonished everyone that he could move with such boisterous enthusiasm while wearing heaps of velvet and lace and countless medallions and badges upon his sash. His crown weighed down upon his plum-colored hair, jewel-encrusted and dwarfing Siegfried's own simple, gold headpiece.

Silence continued to reign for an extended moment, before Montand cleared his throat and began to clap slowly. One by one, the crowd followed suit, a low and uncertain applause echoing through the room.

With Karon's signal, the band reinstated the music, the tension dispersing somewhat. Those who approached Montand and Prince Femio to introduce themselves were polite, but noticeably uncomfortable with Femio's antics.

Siegfried blushed with embarrassment on Femio's behalf and decided to step in. Clearing his throat, he strode to Femio with as much poise as he could muster while his heart continued to throb, and bowed. "Prince Femio, in the name of peace between our lands, I welcome you to my kingdom."

Femio returned Siegfried's bow with a flourishing one of his own, reaching up to hold his hefty crown in place as he lowered his head and straightened once more. "And I wholeheartedly accept your welcome, Prince Siegfried! What a quaint little set of peasants you have to serve you! Such woe and such pain to know that the ladies of your court have now rested their gaze upon my visage and cannot have me, however!" He made to swoon, and Montand appeared behind him to support his liege. "Ah, non-non, Montand~! I must … muster the strength to stand upon my own feet, despite the burden of my beauty!"

Siegfried fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Ah … yes, please, enjoy the ball then."

After a few exchanged pleasantries, the princes parted ways, Siegfried allowing Femio to mingle and embarrass himself further. Honestly, he behaved with such astounding …  _deludedness_.

The ball went on, but Siegfried neither ate nor danced. The last thing he felt was festive, so he allowed his people and his Rungholtan guests to take part in the merriment while he wandered along the borders of the ballroom, swallowing back his pain and his grief.

He'd taken note that General Lysander decided not attend; his knight was emotionally drained from the funerals still, so the prince held no blame against him.

If Siegfried had a choice, he would be in his own bedchambers right now, secluding himself until his fiancee's return. Or even better,  _out there_  with his scouting knights, searching for her with every ounce of his will.

The music filled the room with jubilant energy, his people enjoying the rare occasion of being within the castle walls with eclairs in their hands and smiles on their faces, servants setting out more plates and wine before joining in on the conversation and celebration, the couples twirling about the dance floor and holding one another close as the waltz continued on …

At the edge of it all, Prince Siegfried felt lonelier than he ever had before.

He only dared to pay attention to the party when it was forced upon him.

A terror-ridden squeal erupted from the center of the room and startled him from his somber thoughts. Siegfried glanced up as a pretty, young woman stumbled away from a shocked Prince Femio. Strawberries and cream had been smeared down the front of Femio's tunic, ruining the fabric and clinging to his many pendants and ribbons adorning his chest. And he looked positively horrified.

Femio's hands, covered now with the cake that the young woman splattered all over his front, shook and wiped at his soiled clothing, his bottom lip trembling and his eyes watering. He fell to his knees right there in the center of the ballroom floor, jaw dropped in alarm.

The woman, a young villager who came to the ball with her father and older brother, dropped the empty plate in her hands and shook her head in panic. "I-I'm terribly sorry, Your Highness, I—but you simply surprised me with the flowers and kissing my hand, I just reacted, I—!"

"Non-non!" Femio interrupted, unseeing and unflinching even as the entire ballroom went silent to stare at the prince's melodramatic display. "I cannot be seen like this—my pristine countenance, my romantic elegance—! Oh, this cannot  _be_! Montand! Montand~!" The prince leaped to his feet, bringing the back of his hand to his forehead in dramatic fashion as he half-ran, half-floated to the exit of the ballroom.

The woman, frightened near to death for insulting the Rungholtan ruler, clung to her worried father, her dress likewise stained with cream and cake. Siegfried took it upon himself to approach them and offer his comfort. "It will be alright. It was an honest mistake, have no fear. Let us assist you in cleaning up, and we'll escort you safely home."

"Th-Thank you, Your Highness! Oh, thank you!"

Meanwhile, Karon, in his attempt to calm the guests and close the party in the most polite way possible, took notice of something strange.

Montand had left the party early without his prince.

* * *

Raetsel sighed as she wheeled some empty plates into the kitchens. Ebine, the head cook, tall and boisterous as she was, grinned widely at Raetsel's entrance. "Well, how did it go?" she asked, jolly as ever as she piped cream onto a pastry.

Tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear, Raetsel sighed, smoothing out her apron. "I'm afraid your delicious strawberry shortcake went to waste this evening." Her eyebrows rose with a significant glance, undoubtedly amused. "All over the front of His Highness, Prince Femio's shirt, no less."

Ebine could only laugh, full and joyous. "Oh, if I only could have seen it!"

Despite the situation, Raetsel couldn't stifle the small giggle that escaped her colored lips, bringing her fingertips to her mouth as she laughed. "Oh, if only. But I do hope this will not sour His Highness's dealings with him. I've heard from Karon and Lysander that both princes are quite stubborn, though in different ways."

"Ahh, it doesn't quite help that they're both still very young men!" Straightening, Ebine turned away from her project to wash her hands. "And for all his kindness, Prince Siegfried's got quite a bit of pride!"

"That, he does." Raetsel sighed and retrieved a towel and a pitcher of water from the counter nearby. "At any rate, I should check to see if Prince Femio needs additional aid."

"Oh, I doubt it! He brought his entire staff with him on this trip!" Ebine sighed, but winked good-naturedly. "But you are ever the wonderful hostess, Raetsel, dear."

Raetsel gave her a smile before retreating from the kitchen, heading down the hall and up the stairs to the guests' chambers. It appeared that, in Femio's haste to rush inside, he'd left his door ajar. She smiled a little, shook her head at the spoiled prince's carelessness, balanced the towel and pitcher into the crook of her arm, and reached up to knock.

"—his people are so different, Montand! They do not know how to cope with their adoration for this sweet face of mine, that must be it!"

Raetsel paused, lowering her arm. Perhaps she felt a bit sorry for him. He must have been no older than young Prince Siegfried. Truly, eighteen years of age was far too young to take on entire countries. They were simply …  _boys_.

Despite herself, she leaned around the side of the door to peek into the opening, expecting to see a pacing, cake-covered prince looking rather like a petulant child, while Montand nodded and tended to his liege.

… Her breath caught in her throat, and she almost dropped her pitcher.

She was half-right. Femio, indeed, paced the floor, his arms waving about in his typical expressive fashion, cake still clinging to his entire form.

But Montand was on the ground, in center of a circle of candles and red rose petals—she couldn't count how many. The servant mumbled to himself, hissing whispers escaping his lips as he pulled flower petals from a nearby basket and scattered them with intention. In a strange pattern she couldn't recognize.

Prince Femio ranted on, unfazed. "—you left my side half-way through the gala for your silly rituals once again! With his people! Alone! I simply cannot understand these peasants! Is there … are there things I must learn? Why have I felt so judged in this place—? Perhaps the problem could be—Montand, have I behaved badly? Is it so possible that this perfect prince could be …  _wrong_?"

Montand responded with another harsh whisper, words Raetsel couldn't make out. She bit her lip and watched as Femio paused in his step, hesitation on his face. "I—indeed! You must be right, I have done nothing wrong, yes! It  _is_ Siegfried's doing, it must be! I must discuss with him—!"

Another whisper.

"—But I don't know if we should! We want peace—!"

Another.

"—Surely, yes, but at such a time as this? Prince Siegfried's fiancee … to be missing such a profound love is a terrible thing—!"

And another, and with this whisper, the candles surrounding Montand snuffed out simultaneously. Raetsel took a quivering step away from the door.

"—I … suppose now  _is_ the best time, but … I was hoping for something else to come about all of this! An agreement! Of some sort! But … yes, of course!"

Raetsel's heart raced and she couldn't bring herself to hear any more. She crept away in a rush, seeking out Karon, Lysander, and Prince Siegfried. Immediately.

—

Montand crushed rose petals in his fist.

—

Prince Siegfried's heart clenched, sharper and far more painful than it ever had been.

* * *

When one had less than two months to live, five days seemed like a large chunk of that time. And it flew by all too quickly.

At least, it felt faster than her first couple of nights, and that was likely due to Ahiru actually having some answers. Still, she sought out more. As a result, she felt … productive, instead of miserable, and that was certainly a start.

When Rue showed her Fakir's hut five days ago, as barren as Ahiru's own room but for a few scrolls and books on a tilted shelf, Ahiru asked her why everything had been kept in his residence instead of that library.

Rue's expression was carefully neutral, ruby eyes sharp. "Elder Raven demands that all scrolls and stories pertaining to our curse be kept here—to remind Fakir that it was his power that caused all of this." She gave Ahiru a wry smirk. "Though, Fakir doesn't have that power anymore."

It was unfair, Ahiru thought, for anyone to blame Fakir for something he couldn't help. But she kept silent on it for now, already moving toward the shelf to pick up the first book. "He doesn't?"

"No. You saw it. It was taken away from him completely. He hasn't been able to write for almost three hundred years now."

So, Ahiru began her own investigation.

There were several manuscripts and pages about Drosselmeyer's history written in Autor's hand (thankfully, none that had taken her to another time all over again) and even some memoirs by Raven about the curse and his experiences. It became apparent that Raven sorely missed Edel, and they'd been very close while he was under her tutelage. His journals ended about a century ago, and it didn't look like he'd written anything else recently, as far as she'd seen.

And she found a word-for-word copy of D. D. Drosselmeyer's cursed story. That, she made certain to look over again and again.

As Rue had told her, it dictated the details of the curse—they were to be dragon-creatures, frozen in time within themselves, trapped and tied to Edel's haven for three hundred years, and upon the completion and alignment of the raven constellation, they must spill the life and blood of Drosselmeyer's descendant, or they vanish in a flash of light …

Ahiru really didn't like having to reread the manuscript. At all.

… She was never a naturally studious sort or an avid reader, however, and was easily distracted or confused by complicated wording (mostly on Autor's part). That was probably why she was still in Fakir's room, five days later, and only getting through three scrolls and two books on the shelf (and that was by skimming).

She would get through half a page before growing restless, and then would find some excuse to take a break.

Ahiru found that there was, surprisingly, quite a bit to do underground, and it was very easy finding less mentally exhausting things to occupy herself aside from the tedious task of flipping through pages in Fakir's hut. At first, she wanted to go back to that trapdoor and find that fairy again, but something else always seemed to come up instead.

Rue always needed help doing laundry and Ahiru actually enjoyed the mundane act of scrubbing more than Rue seemed to. Malen, shy as she was, let Ahiru look through her pretty sketchbook once—most of the pages had beautiful charcoal drawings of Rue and she wondered why Malen never showed them to her. At some point during the past five days, Freya allowed her to help harvest some herbs from the garden area of Wyvern, telling her which each plant did and what potions to make with them (all of which Ahiru had forgotten immediately after, regretfully). Hermia, as empathetic as ever, constantly checked in with her, bringing her food and reminding her to clean up, rest, and freshen up every so often while making pleasant conversation. And all the while, Uzura followed Ahiru around, entranced and enthralled with this new person in her life, and after five days of drumming, playing chase, and sitting around laughing at nothing, Ahiru could safely say she was very, very fond of the little girl.

The other villagers paid her little to no mind, accepting her presence, but likely still seeing Drosselmeyer in her and giving her a wide berth. If Elder Raven crossed her path, he would give her his usual, cool smile and bow in her direction. She never stuck around to make conversation, unsettling as he was (and she decided that she  _didn't_  like the blame he placed on Fakir). Autor woke up as well, but he made a point to avoid speaking with many people as repairs were still underway.

But she needed to stick to the bottom line!

"Okay!" she announced from the floor on the fifth day, half to Uzura on the bed and half to herself, "I need to research! No matter how many distractions there are or how much laundry's gotta get done! Gee, they really did keep me pretty busy these past couple of days, huh, Uzura?"

Uzura drummed and grinned. "Ohhhhh, busy busy busy busy-zura!"

Ahiru nodded with determination, picking up the next book—the next ones were all dustier than the scrolls and tomes she already looked through. "This is kind of boring stuff, but it has to get done! And there aren't a lot of chores to do in town today. The only thing I really wanted to do is—"

… She'd asked every day if she could see Fakir and help tend to his wounds, but they always said he needed rest. No one told her how he was feeling or anything, and it had all been her fault in the first place …

She worried for him.

Ahiru's expression fell, and she shook her head, glancing up at Uzura before opening to the first page after blowing dust off the cover. "Okay, I'm going to start now, so like before, okay? Drum softer?"

Uzura obeyed, but her eyes widened upon seeing the leather-bound tome in Ahiru's lap. "Ohhhhh! It's Fakir's-zura!"

"Eh?"

"Fakir's book, Fakir's book, Fakir's book-zura!"

Ahiru's jaw fell slack as she glanced down at the book. In clean, sweeping letters, Fakir's name had been scrawled across the top of the first page, dated centuries before.

… Was it things he wrote about the curse, like Raven had written …?

She turned to the next page. No, it wasn't about the curse at all. These pages were more brown, more worn, the ink smudged in some places, corners torn and folded. This was older than even Drosselmeyer's curse itself.

_Once upon a time_  …

Ahiru had stumbled upon Fakir's stories. From back then, when he could still write.

She slammed the cover closed.

… She opened it again.

"I-It's for research!" she cried out to no one in particular. Uzura stopped paying attention and stared at the little flame in the lantern on Fakir's desk. "It's just in case this might have something to help! That's all! Right? I was given permission to look at things and see for myself! And I haven't found anything yet to help at all, so this is just me being thorough! Right? Yeah!"

So, she began her journey through Fakir's stories.

There were a few pages here and there that displayed the practice of his craft: a short story of a pair of shoes that revealed itself after being misplaced; a fable about a lost puppy finding its way back to a young Wyvern girl; a tale of lost little Uzura making her way from the hills and safely back home to the village and into her mother's arms … Things that gave Ahiru a glimpse of the things Fakir cared enough to write about in such a way.

Then, there were other stories—full epics, of knights and chivalry, of princes and battles against forces of evil, of princesses who fought for freedom, of ducklings and towns and clock towers and magic.

While the other writings could hardly keep Ahiru's attention for more than half a page, she spent  _hours_ soaking in Fakir's stories, enraptured by the magic he weaved with more than just his power.

She never would've imagined that the fire-breathing kidnapper who treated her with such disdain and roughness before could have such a deep and vibrant imagination. She knew she would daydream of his worlds every day from now on, so full of interesting characters who overcame insurmountable odds …

… They all had happy endings.

"What the hell are you—?"

"Ah?!" Ahiru dropped the book she had been reading—the third one of Fakir's, since she'd finished the first two already.

And the writer was right there, standing in his doorway, bandages visible from beneath his ratty shirt and his arm in a sling. His wings and the scattered scales across his skin had disappeared. And he looked rather …  _perturbed_. "F-Fakir, you're okay!"

"Don't touch those!" He reached out to grab the collection of books from the ground, but stopped and winced with the sharp pains of his injuries.

"I'm so sorry!" Ahiru scrambled to her feet. "I just—I was looking for things to help with your curse! I-I saw everything while you were asleep, so I thought if I helped, then there would be some other way to—! I didn't know I was—!"

"You know exactly what you were doing!" Fakir snarled, trying to kick the books away from her and toward the corner. It was only then that Ahiru realized that Uzura left the hut while she was so enthralled with Fakir's stories, leaving her alone with the angry dragon.

Angry … dragon …

Ahiru squared her shoulders, a pout forming on her lips. She needed to stay firm here. She couldn't let him—! "Y-You'd better calm down! You're hurt still, and this place might get worse if you change right now!"

At this, Fakir took pause, his hands clenching at his sides and within the sling. Though his temper calmed somewhat, the scowl remained. "Don't you tell me what to do." He shoved past her, lowering carefully to his knees to pick up his books.

But Ahiru was incensed like never before. He said not to tell him what to do, but he seemed to have listened anyway. So what was his attitude for?! "Don't  _you_  tell me what to do either, then! I was only trying to help!" She took a step toward him, trying to appear as threatening as she could (a ridiculous notion in itself), while simultaneously dipping down to assist him. "Now, come on, you're still hurt, so let me—!"

He growled, shoving her away and then tossing his books onto his bed with his abled arm. Then, he whirled around to face her. "These things were none of your business! And if you want me to keep calm, then you'd better keep your own mouth shut!" Leaning down, he made to tower over her tiny frame, trying to use his superior height to get her to relent.

But she wouldn't back down. Though she couldn't hope to match his height, she certainly wasn't going to step away. She turned her chin up to face him as he all but loomed over her, her expression as angry as a round, pouting, freckled face could look. Petulantly, Ahiru stomped her foot, stress and anger erupting from her belly and out past her lips. "I was only looking around because I wanted to make sure I was being thorough! You're the one who  _kidnapped_ me! I'm trying to do my  _best_ here and maybe if you learned to  _listen_ , then you wouldn't get so angry!"

"I'm not angry! You're just  _annoying_! This was not for you to  _touch_! You nosy, little— _stay out of my things_!" he bellowed into her face.

She didn't even flinch. Shaking her head, she drew her hands into fists. "Oh, who cares?! What's so wrong with seeing your work?! It was  _good_! The stories were amazing! I really liked all of it and I couldn't put them down and they were more interesting than all the other stuff! Is that so wrong?!"

He grit his teeth together, his green eyes wide and stunned for a brief moment before they narrowed sharply. "That's not—just  _leave_. Get out!" With that, he finally moved away from her, pointing toward his doorway with his uninjured arm.

"Okay, fine! You don't have to yell at me, okay?!" she screeched, ironically matching his volume on an equal level.

"I said,  _get out_!"

"Ooooh, you—! Ugh!" She stomped again, folding her arms across her chest and whirling around to step closer to the doorway. "If you weren't so badly hurt, I'd-I'd-I'd  _shove_  you!"

"Fine, I don't care, just  _go!_ "

"Fine!" Ahiru swept past the cloth covering the threshold and stepped outside.

" _Fine_!" Fakir called out after her.

She poked her head back in with one last, " _Fine_!" And finally, she rushed off before he could get the last word in, her heart hammering wildly in her chest and cheeks red from frustration. Ignoring the strange looks that she garnered, she marched toward the ladder that led to the lower ground, angrier than she had ever been in her entire life.

Honestly, for him to react so strongly over a couple of books was ridiculous! Sure, she was likely pushing into his personal boundaries, but …

… She really, really loved his work. And if he got so angry over it, then it must've meant something important to him. Something that he needed to be kept private. He was so defensive and so determined to keep his writing away.

All of his stories were dated before the time of the curse, too. Since losing his power, he hadn't even written another story, even just for recreation.

Well, it could've been worse. Thankfully, it didn't appear that Fakir was struggling to transform at all when she'd left. Perhaps he was able to take her advice and stay calm enough to be angry without transforming or anything like that.

Ahiru's steps slowed as her irrational temper tantrum dissipated. She … really did push him far, and he had just woken up, too.

She really had to make it up to him now for being her nosy self, even if he  _did_ deserve a good scolding. She shouldn't have looked through his things without his permission, but he had no right to just scream at her like that!

… Ahiru had never allowed herself to behave that way. Something felt so freeing and liberating, letting loose like that, though. Mytho would've been utterly mortified.

And in all of that, she'd forgotten that her main purpose was to find out a way to save the people of Wyvern without … having to die. And she failed to do so.

Well, Ahiru needed to get to the bottom of it all—a better solution to the curse, and Fakir's strong reaction to his writing. And by figuring all of that out, she could help everyone.

Time was of the essence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Docktor Locktor


	8. Segue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their giggles chimed like bells, echoing and sweet. And after moments of soft laughter and the 'swish' of flittering wings, the lady bugs took flight like shooting stars in the darkness. A flurry of dancing lights, they left Ahiru utterly dazzled as they circled and twirled, filling the air with a soothing warmth. She'd forgotten how to breathe. There were so many of them!
> 
> Uzura released a high-pitched squeal of delight and scampered forward, jumping and sprinting back and forth across the meadow, dancing along with the playful lady bugs around her. And despite the throbbing pain in Ahiru's palm, she couldn't help but join in, leaving Fakir standing wordlessly where he was.
> 
> Somehow, as Ahiru spun clumsily on her toes and threw her arms out, welcoming the lady bugs to play with her hair and dance on her shoulders, she laughed, unrestrained and undaunted. She took Uzura's hand with her own, uninjured one and together they bolted back and forth, dodging flowers and lady bugs in a playful game without rules or reason.
> 
> For the first time in many months, Ahiru felt light—like she was floating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, readers. There was a death in the family a couple of months ago and it hit me pretty hard, and so I fell a bit out of my usual momentum. On top of that, we decided to move houses. Again. But I'm back and hoping to pick up the slack these next couple of weeks. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> I would also love to mention that there is now Curse of the Dragon art! :D A couple of wonderful artists were kind enough to draw a bit for this story, and I am super honored and flattered that they did so!
> 
> Please take a look at their tumblrs! The link to their artwork for Curse of the Dragon will be on my profile page, and definitely check out their other works as well!

Femio lounged on the chaise in the corner of his guest chamber, his crown in his lap. He idly traced the jewels encrusting the crown with the tip of his finger and watched dully as his slaves shuffled about his guest chambers, packing his many lavish belongings and hefting large trunks full of garments out the door. Montand, as always, stood beside him, his gaze downturned as he fanned the prince.

After consulting his advisors, he elected against remaining in Vineta for the remainder of the week. Montand was right—there would be no peaceful agreements to be made here. Not with people of such uncivil, discourteous subjects under Prince Siegfried's rule!

It wasn't as if Prince Femio  _personally_ familiarized himself with the state of the Rungholtan Army, but Montand assured him that they were strong and quite a force to be reckoned with.

Yet, Femio did not feel so cheery over his ill-fated trip to Vineta. He slouched, slumping down into the plush seat with a sigh. War was a rather rash and hasty decision, wasn't it? So much time and money would have to be put aside for such a campaign, not to mention the energy and manpower necessary to maintain their position of strength. And war resulted in so much death.

His frown deepened. He'd witnessed the funerals held for those who have passed on in search of Prince Siegfried's fiancee. There had been such grief in the prince's eyes, and even now, Lady Ahiru had not returned! While Femio was hard-pressed to understand the plight of loving  _only_ one woman, to lose such a piece of one's heart sounded simply agonizing!

Though his subjects and his decisions were questionable, Prince Siegfried presented himself as a generous man. A good, decent ruler. Femio admitted that much. To think, they could have been very good friends! It was a shame, then, that these grievous events must come to pass.

Montand was right. Prince Siegfried, rumored to be steadfast, honorable, and composed, was at his weakest. Now was the time to take advantage of such weaknesses in his character and his country.

With a sigh, Femio leaned back and glanced up at his valet. "Ahh, Montand. I do suppose we will be ready to depart within the next day or so?"

He was met with a simple nod.

"Yes, yes. Perhaps even by tonight. And then, we will wage war. Oh, what  _anguishing_  news I will bring to my subjects upon my return! Such woe, such uncanny heartache for a prince as gracious as myself~!"

Rising to his feet, Femio made his way to the large window nearby, overlooking Vineta's majesty. This was, indeed, a rather noble-looking capital city for Prince Siegfried's country—the rolling hills stretched out in the distance, the crystalline lake glittering below in the noonday sun. Even from his vantage point in one of the towers of the Grand Chateau, the little people were visible, going about their peaceful business in the town beyond the castle grounds. Once Rungholt conquered it, then the lands extending from the southern straits to the coast would belong to him. It was everything that a prince of Femio's stature deserved. And Montand made a point to mention what valuable slaves could be taken from these lands!

So … why was his heart so heavy? He'd never felt this way before. Even when the ladies of his court vied for his affections (for he couldn't possibly choose just  _one!_ ), he'd never experienced such an ache—such a tear and displeasure in in chest.

Montand came to stand beside him, fanning with more enthusiasm. And with his valet's presence, Femio attempted to soothe his racing heart.

Such thoughts were unbecoming! This war would be quick and clean, and Femio would be remembered in history for his glory forever. In that, he would be content.

"Montand, fetch me a thimble of brandy! I must calm my nerves before we bid farewell to my fellow prince."

* * *

"Ahiru, I think you've scrubbed it enough."

"Eh?"

She'd been grinding the dress into the washboard with unnecessary force. Her fingers were wrinkled and numb now. "Sorry," Ahiru mumbled, shoulders slumping.

Rue sighed and stood up from her seat on the stool beside her. Kneeling down, she tried to pry the fabric from Ahiru's grip. "I'll finish up. You've done quite enough lately."

Indeed, with everyone distracted by repairs on the upper ground, they didn't have time to do their own chores—Ahiru washing their soiled clothes almost every day had been a surprising help to them, and Rue made her gratitude known by taking on the rest of the task.

"But I—!" Ahiru actually  _enjoyed_  doing the laundry. Still, Rue was insistent and she was forced to relent when Rue's sharp eyes met her own. "Alright …"

Though this wasn't Rue's favorite chore, she set right to work. "You seem rather distracted. I take it your search didn't go well."

Ahiru wiped her soapy hands on a spare rag. "I couldn't find anything yet."

"That was to be expected."

Defensive, Ahiru countered with a pout, crossing her arms over her chest. "W-Well, I didn't get through all of it yet!"

"It's been days." Rue huffed and frowned down at the washbin and unfinished laundry. "How could it possibly take you this long?"

"I've been distracted! With all the chores and—" Ahiru crossed her arms, "—some other reading, I guess!"

Rue wrung out a pair of Uzura's tiny bloomers, standing up to pin it to the clothesline. "Other reading?"

Ahiru fell silent, recalling just how  _fussy_  Fakir had been upon finding his books open in her lap. Well, he'd been more than fussy. He was downright angry. What exactly was he so ashamed of?

Should she say anything to Rue? If Fakir had been so secretive of his writing, was it even her right at all to share what she'd come across?

His stories enraptured her. She found herself yearning to learn more about him, regardless of how violently he protested to her sticking her nose in his writing. Glimpsing into the past gave her a decent understanding of his power, but it was only the day before when she came to realize that he had real  _talent_.

Did he stop writing entirely? Was it so terrible if he continued, even if his power had been taken from him?

"Ahiru?"

"Eh? Oh, I just—I guess it's kinda hard getting things done, since it's all in Fakir's house and he didn't really like me snooping around," she admitted, plopping down on the stool. Maybe it was best to just be open about everything. "Doesn't seem right! He has to keep being punished for something that happened so long ago! I looked at all the things he's written before. They're beautiful, and the curse thing wasn't even his fault, really—!"

"I know that," Rue retorted, blowing her bangs from her eyes as she pinned a pair of trousers to the clothesline, "but leave it be."

Ahiru's jaw fell slack. "You're his sister, though!"

Rue turned her crimson eyes to Ahiru, sharp and guarded. " _Yes_ , I am his sister. And I also know that Raven has his reasons for everything. If he demands that Fakir keeps the manuscripts in his home, then it is to be done without question. If he wants Fakir to never write again, then there is a purpose for it."

"Rue—"

"We  _trust_  our Elder," Rue insisted.

At this, Ahiru bit her lip and slipped back into silence. She couldn't pretend she understood the depth of or reason for Rue's unwavering faith in the village elder, but it didn't sit well with her, particularly if Fakir ended up suffering for it. Between Rue's defense of Raven and Autor's sharp remarks almost a week ago, Ahiru wondered if Fakir always had been the brunt of that much negative attention for the whole of three centuries.

It seemed lonely. And while Fakir was rather unpleasant as a person, he still  _saved_  her. He appeared to care deeply for the people of Wyvern, moreso than anyone else.

She let her gaze drift off and her eyes landed on Uzura nearby, the girl drumming and marching repetitively. "... Does Raven really keep Fakir from writing? Even for fun?"

"It's for the best." Rue glanced away, likewise watching over Uzura as the little girl stopped to stare up at the soft glow of the nearby lamppost. "And it hardly matters. It's not as if Fakir seeks to try again anyway."

Ahiru drew her knees up to her chest and sighed.

"Don't you have other things to worry about?" Rue placed her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow. "Other things to occupy you?"

"Well, I guess I could go back to researching when I can go back to Fakir's place …"

Rue frowned, exasperated, but attempting to maintain some patience. "Ahiru, I told you, if there was any other way, we  _would_  have found it by now. Stop looking."

She refused to let her heart sink. "I want to keep going, though!"

"Then you will continue to be disappointed."

Ahiru winced at the severity in Rue's words—and the finality behind it.

* * *

When one of Prince Femio's advisors informed Karon that they would not be staying for the rest of the week to continue their negotiations, a blanket of trepidation settled over those who congregated in the conference hall. Karon licked his dry lips and wrung his hands, the wrinkles over his brow deeper than ever before. General Lysander collapsed into a plush chair nearby, head hanging low. Even the usually chattery and loudly anxious councilmen lacked words.

Prince Siegfried never looked so empty.

They weren't fools. Prince Femio choosing to leave so suddenly after a silly incident at a ball gave them enough of a indication as to what would result.

Despite their hopes and efforts, war was on the horizon.

"Perhaps," one of the younger councilmen suggested, "we could … withhold Prince Femio and his company from returning."

"You mean to suggest we hold him  _prisoner_. Out of the question," Siegfried declared from his stance at the window, his back facing them. "If he intends to return to Rungholt, then let him. And if war is declared, then we will defeat him in battle."

A chill swept over Karon at the uncharacteristic severity in Prince Siegfried's icy words. " … Yes, Your Highness."

"Any news of my fiancee?"

Silence prevailed for a moment, thick in the air. Then, Lysander, with his helmet in his hands, swallowed the lump in his throat before speaking. "No such luck, Your Highness. I—uh, I'm sorry." He shifted uncomfortably in his armor. "If we truly come to these … these engagements with Rungholt, then I don't think we can safely spare any men—"

Siegfried's gaze, sharp, accusing, and flashing a strange pink hue, snapped to Lysander, almost as if daring him to continue that train of thought. All froze, stunned.

Lysander scrambled to recover. "I—not that I was implying—the search for Lady Ahiru will continue, full force, Your Highness!"

When the prince turned back to the window, the rest of the room's occupants released a collective breath, unnerved by Siegfried's behavior. Karon admitted that the prince, even as a young boy, always held a strong will and steadfast spirit, but his behavior as of late displayed a new facet of him that Karon never encountered before. It appeared that Karon wasn't alone in this—the others didn't know what to make of it either.

The door creaked open, loud and clear in the silence. Raetsel slipped into the room and gave them a deep curtsy as they stood and bowed toward her in exchange. Though her typical allure still exuded from her, she lacked her usual energy, likewise affected by the recent happenings no doubt. "Prince Femio and his company will be departing now," she announced, "Will you see them off, Your Highness?'

There was a pause before Prince Siegfried spoke. "... Yes." He straightened out his tunic and brushed his cape aside, carefully controlling himself and his composure. "I will see to him at once."

The prince strode with purpose out the door, General Lysander and the rest of his councilmen following after him. Karon chose to linger behind, catching Raetsel's attention for a moment. "Miss Raetsel, how are you? You seem … ill at ease." He forced out a weak smile, attempting to reassure her somewhat.

Raetsel hesitated for a moment. "I … to be expected, and I'd imagine you're all feeling the same."

Sensing a peculiar note of apprehension beneath her words, Karon nodded in agreement, leading her out of the conference hall to follow the rest of the crowd. "Indeed. You must still be troubled then, from what you've witnessed."

Karon recalled how Raetsel collected Prince Siegfried, General Lysander, and himself after the ball. She'd seen something strange—it might have meant nothing at all, but they couldn't seem to rid it from their minds. "I stumbled upon Montand, Prince Femio's servant, performing some ritualistic  _witchcraft_  in the guest chamber," she told them that night, her voice hushed as the rest of the servants cleaned up the remnants of the ball.

"I— _pardon_?" he replied in disbelief, "Witchcraft?"

"I don't remember it clearly, but it appeared so. He sat surrounded by candles and roses, and Prince Femio didn't appear to be shocked by it, either."

Despite the growing alarm between them, Prince Siegfried remained seemingly unconcerned. "It changes nothing about our current circumstances. Let him have his rituals."

"But, Your Highness—!"

"Enough. We have no proof nor standing with which to accuse a man from another country of any such magic. Leave it be. It is out of our hands."

Thus, the subject was dropped, but Raetsel appeared far less willing to accept its dismissal.

Karon reached out to place a supportive hand on her shoulder. "Come. There are other things that require our attention now."

They fell into mutual silence, trailing after the collection of councilmen as Prince Siegfried led the way to the entrance hall. Prince Femio and his company were already gathered there, his caravan of slaves and garish belongings lined up to depart. As always, Montand stood beside his prince, eyes downturned with a basket of rose petals in his hands. Raetsel stiffened at the sight of him, and Karon gave her shoulder another squeeze.

The two princes stood before one another, stiff as boards. Siegfried's careful neutrality met Femio's haughty pout. Then, they bowed.

"I hope you've enjoyed your impromptu stay, Your Highness, and I'm sorry to see you leave so soon." Despite the civility in Siegfried's words, Karon could feel the icy timbre beneath them.

Prince Femio turned his nose up. "Well, I can certainly say I will leave with a deeper understanding of your little country! Until next time, Prince Siegfried. I will see you again."

"... Indeed."

With no further comment, Montand opened the door to the jeweled Rungholtan carriage, and with a swish of Femio's thick, fur-lined cloak, the prince boarded, the door shutting behind him. Montand bowed his head to Prince Siegfried before retreating to his bench at the head of the carriage, pulling the reins on the bulls as they set off, a trail of rose petals in their wake.

They were left in fragile silence, until Karon shattered it. "I … will sanction the clean-up. Again."

"And I … will prepare," Lysander muttered, "for whatever Your Highness wishes."

Prince Siegfried reached up and scratched lightly over his heart.

* * *

Ahiru gripped at her skirt, stood before Fakir's doorway, and took a deep breath.

This time, she wasn't going to let him and his bad attitude deter her. Uzura waddled up to stand beside her, the little girl blinking owlishly at Fakir's hut. "Are you gonna study more-zura?"

Ahiru's expression softened when she glanced down, a smile touching her lips. She didn't understand why Uzura all but attached herself to Ahiru's presence these past few days, but she found that she didn't mind so much. Uzura was welcome company, an island of comfort in a sea of strangers. "That's right! And I'm not going to let Fakir chase me off this time."

"Ohhhhh!"

Puffing out her chest and placing her hands on her hips, Ahiru marched right through, pushing the fabric to the side with a swipe of her arm.

However, she was met with an vacant room. Ahiru paused at the threshold while Uzura scampered inside and hopped onto Fakir's bed. "Ohhhhh, he's not here-zura!"

"Well, that's better for me then!" she declared decidedly. Maybe she lost the immediate opportunity to apologize for breaching his privacy, but she also avoided whatever confrontation awaited her when she faced him again. It did make her wonder, though, where he'd gone off to in his condition. Infuriating or not, he  _was_  still severely injured, even after Freya's diligent care.

Uzura amused herself by bouncing lightly on the small bed while Ahiru made her way to Fakir's shelf to get started. It appeared emptier than usual, the older, thicker volumes absent from the collection of documents and scrolls that occupied the space. Upon flipping open the remaining material and scanning the pages, she knew that these were not written in Fakir's hand. He must've removed his own work from the shelf entirely.

Ahiru pouted. Was he really so angry that he had to go and hide all of his stories like that? Could he really be that shy?

Well … she supposed that it wasn't any of her business, anyway, even if she  _was_  curious. There was work to be done.

She picked up a few of the journals that had been left there and sat beside Uzura, trying to find where she left off. Hopefully, she'd be able to remain focused and get something done and figured out before any more time passed. She'd wasted enough of it as it was.

But barely a few minutes went by before Ahiru began to tire. With a sigh, she flopped back onto the cot beside Uzura, staring up at the cracked ceiling of Fakir's hut. The words all blended together again, and she still made no progress whatsoever. There  _was_ something missing. There had to be.

Her hope dwindled.

Despite herself, Ahiru couldn't help but recall Rue's insistent words earlier. The Wyvern villagers were kind people, if a little stern, and they would've chosen a different avenue had it been available to them, wouldn't they?

Could she really reason through this in less than two months, when they failed to do so in three  _centuries_?

Ahiru whined and covered her face with her hands.

"Are you sad-zura?"

Sad? Ahiru considered herself far past  _sad_. She felt absolutely wretched and distraught, torn between resentment and guilt, floundering in the middle of a huge mess that both was and wasn't her fault at the same time. How could she express that to a child—to a little girl who would likewise benefit from Ahiru's demise without even realizing the gravity of everything? How could she explain this chaos when Ahiru herself hardly grasped it?

She settled for the simpler answer. "Yes, I'm really sad, Uzura," Ahiru murmured, rolling over to face her. "This is really hard ..."

"But you shouldn't be sad-zura! We're going to see the sky-zura!"

"The sky?"

"Mm! Elder and everyone said that you're gonna show us the sky-zura!"

Ahiru sat up, blinking down curiously. "Do you mean …? Hmm, I guess it makes sense that you don't really see the sky that ofte—" She paused, and then straightened in realization. "Wait— _Eh_?! You mean you don't see the sky at  _all_?!"

"Fakir said it was big and blue and full of clouds when he went up to come and get you-zura! And they all said you're here to show me the sky, too-zura!"

It dawned on Ahiru, then, that Uzura probably forgot all about what the surface was like. Three hundred years might as well be an eternity, even for a person frozen in time, and _especially_ for a child as young as she was when the curse fell upon them.

Uzura's eyes gleamed with a spark of delight at the mere mention of the sky. In fact, Ahiru had never seen her so happy. Enthusiastic, loud, and energetic, yes, but never quite so elated.

What must that be like? The other villagers retained their treasured memories of their lives on the surface. They strived for something they genuinely missed. Uzura, on the other hand, knew nothing beyond her life underground.

For Ahiru, growing up in Hedeby was a blessing. Even during the last week or so here in Wyvern, when she rested her head onto the scratchy pillow and sheets, rendered restless as the days and nights blended together in the absence of the sun, thoughts of home comforted her—the salty, sea breeze sweeping in through her open window to caress the gossamer drapes as she awoke in bed; the rustle of leaves above her as she rested against the bark of her favorite oak tree; the soft 'quacks' of ducks and 'honks' of swans that floated gently on the lake as she dipped her toes into the calm water; her father's laughter, her mother's dance and that beautiful, blue sky …

And Ahiru glimpsed into Wyvern's past with Autor's power. She beheld the beauteous landscape, the serenity of their lives, and the reverence and joy with which they celebrated their magical heritage. They lived a peaceful existence, its wonder and sweet simplicity comparable to Ahiru's own fond childhood home.

Uzura possessed  _none_ of those precious memories.

"Duck-zura?" Uzura's tiny hand brushed against her freckled cheek.

"Eh?" Broken from her dizzying reverie, Ahiru shook her head. "Ah, sorry! I was just … thinking about things."

"Are you excited about the sky, too-zura?"

A cold heaviness settled into Ahiru's gut, weighing her down and grounding her into reality. The citizens of Wyvern had gone out of their way to introduce her to the intimate, vicious details of their past, the sad, desolate state of their present, and their hopes and desperation for a future. Despite, however, how much they'd shown her, they'd apparently never told her about  _this_.

It was in Uzura's wide, curious, happy eyes where she finally grasped  _all_ of what was at stake.

Didn't she deserve the sky, too?

Ahiru attempted to conceal the rush of wretchedness and self-contempt with a shaky, lopsided grin. "M-Maybe that's enough studying for me today!" she blurted out with an unnecessary hitch in her voice.

No, she couldn't possibly focus now. Later. She would try again later, when she could keep her head straight and her heart steadfast. She needed something else—a breath of air from the darkness in which she suddenly found herself drowning. Something to keep her afloat.

When had she been the most calm down here? Playing with Uzura? Doing laundry? Reading Fakir's stories? Or ...

Her mind fixated on the little fairy— _lady bug_ —that danced around in the light of her lamp and comforted her with such an affectionate, warm light when she needed it most. The same little lady bug who disappeared beneath the ground to a place she'd yet to explore.

Ahiru leapt to her feet and reached for Uzura's hand. "Come on! Let's go on a little adventure instead!"

"Ohhhh! Adventure-zura!"

However, it wasn't much of an  _adventure_. Ahiru remembered the exact location of that mysterious trap door in a shadowed area of the lower ground. She'd considered venturing down there quite a few times already, and now she finally had the chance to see for herself what rested deeper into the abyss. Perhaps that lady bug would be there waiting for her, to give her just the strength and inspiration she needed to keep pressing onward.

Uzura curled her little hand in Ahiru's, her stubby legs trying to keep up with Ahiru's bouncy stride. At some point during their trek to the lower ground, they stumbled upon Raven and Autor—Ahiru immediately averted her gaze and picked up the pace, not too keen on stopping to make conversation with her least favorite people in Wyvern.

Thankfully, they allowed her to veer off and away from them, Raven with an amused smile and Autor with a scowl.

"You don't like Elder-zura?"

Ahiru sighed. "Something like that. He's kind of … creepy."

Uzura brought a finger to her chin in thought. "Ohhhh! They said Elder was friends with my mommy-zura!"

"I … I guess he must've been, if that's what they're all telling you."

"Mm! Mommy was really nice, is what they say-zura! And Elder misses her a lot-zura!"

"What they say?" Ahiru paused in her step for a moment. "So, you don't remember your mom? At all?"

Uzura shook her head, unperturbed. "Mm-mm."

She didn't remember the sky  _or_  her mother.

Ahiru remembered hers with such warm fondness. She smelled of flowers and springtime, with soft, red hair and a swanlike neck. When Ahiru closed her eyes, she could still make out the silhouette of her mother's form, dancing on the tips of her toes and twirling with effortless fluidity and sweetness. And, most of all, Ahiru missed her embraces—so full and all-encompassing, tight and secure, holding her and protecting her from her most vivid nightmares.

Though her eyes burned and blurred, and her chest ached anew with the memories, at least she  _had_ happiness with her mother. At least her mother could live on in her heart.

Ahiru's spirit almost died when her parents passed. To feel no loss at  _all_ seemed so much worse, and Uzura's easygoing, carefree attitude toward a mother she didn't remember sent Ahiru even deeper into remorse.

The rest of their trek was silent. When the trapdoor came into view, Ahiru dropped Uzura's hand, feeling eager for this venture. She'd spent days, almost a week, in this bleak, broken place, and though it was likely that this basement-like level was even darker, at least it was new. And perhaps the lady bug awaited her arrival.

Ahiru gripped the handle and pulled, once again pleasantly surprised at the lightness of the wood. The hinges moved smoothly, and no dust or cobwebs clung to the edges. This place must have been used or visited often.

That was even more apparent when Uzura didn't even hesitate to begin descending the ladder that led to the level below them, as if she was familiar with it already. The little girl's form turned dark as she continued lower, framed by the glowing ground beneath—so like the gleaming, white grass back up on the surface. How was that possible?

_Well,_ Ahiru supposed,  _only one way to find out!_

Puffing out her chest, she followed Uzura down, clinging carefully to the ladder.

She only reached the halfway point when she slowed to a stop, suspended and latched onto the wooden rungs as the sight before her stole her breath away.

Below her, the deepest level of this underground village brimmed with a white, glimmering and radiant glow, the expanse casting light in the deepest shadows. The sight put even the pearl grasses on the surface to absolute shame. All around her grew a meadow of twinkling, lustrous flowers. They reminded her of daffodils, the happy, yellow colors replaced by luminescent, white petals, quiet and still in the deep abyss of Wyvern. Absent were the dismal, stone huts and old roads on the levels above, and the fire-lit lampposts she grew familiar with completely paled in comparison to the sheer, serene brilliance beneath.

All this time, this entire week, this place had been here!

She registered that Uzura made it to the ground safely, her small silhouette slipping through the flower field. Still, Ahiru couldn't move from her spot, resting her chin on the rung as she sighed in awe. For all of the horrors and injustices she'd endured thus far, she did feel a certain melancholic sense of gratefulness to be able to see such wonders.

In the near distance, Uzura's small form approached another, much taller, shadowed figure, near the edge of the meadow where the platform ended and the abyss began. Ahiru squinted, vaguely recognizing the stature, the poise, and the lean shape as her eyes adjusted.

So Fakir had been here this whole time? A sour taste spread through her mouth and her previous foul mood welled back up in her chest. She considered forgetting about this beautiful place and climbing right back up, but curiosity gripped her and she remained, watching from her vantage point as Uzura bounced on her toes next to the tall figure.

He bent forward and picked up something from a stack on the ground with his uninjured arm. A book—one of  _his_  books, Ahiru realized. When he exhaled, a tiny ribbon of orange-yellow embers swept from his lips to ignite the corner of the tome, the hot color sharply contrasting with the serenity of the surrounding, glowing blooms.

He was … he was  _burning_  his books!

" _Wait_!" Her quack-like voice shattered the peace, slicing through it with a jagged edge.

She scrambled down the rest of the ladder, stumbled a bit as she almost lost her footing, and then made a mad dash for Fakir and Uzura. She threw her hands up as she bounded clumsily through the glimmering flower field, her antics earning her a mirthful laugh from Uzura and a deep scowl from Fakir.

His stare didn't deter her. All but leaping at him, she carelessly snatched the burning book from his grasp, trying to stifle the small flame with her bare hands in her panic. "D-Don't _burn_  them! You can't— _ow!_ "

"Idiot!" Fakir slapped it out of her grip so it landed with a 'thud' onto the soil. With a stomp, he put out the fire with the bottom of his shoe, ruining the book even further. "What is _wrong_  with you?!"

She cradled her throbbing hands to her chest, bottom lip trembling. Alright, perhaps that  _was_ a bad idea.

But she remembered his stories. She remembered every character and their happy endings—the prince and princess married; the knight settled down and became so much more than he thought he could be; the duckling found peace within herself. Each universe he'd created was precious, and seeing him throw that away—!

… Ahiru lacked a talent like that. She couldn't write (she could barely pay attention while  _reading_!), nor could she dance like Rue or her mother, tend to others' wounds properly like Freya, draw like Malen. She couldn't even feel or relate to others like Hermia, so wrapped up in her own daydreams as usual. Certainly, she wasn't queen material, and Prince Siegfried would've come to know her eventually as a … disappointment.

Even if Fakir didn't write anymore, he couldn't just burn them. Did he not know the value of being to do extraordinary things?

With the very tips of her fingers, she reached for the empty space where her pendant should've been, tears welling up from both the pain in her hand and the pain in her heart.

"Duck-zura?" murmured Uzura, her blue eyes rippling with worry.

After a long pause, Fakir grumbled. Then, he reached out, his eyebrow twitching. "Let's see them."

Ahiru blinked in surprise while trying not to let the tears fall. "E-Eh?"

"Your hands." He sounded like he was fighting for patience. "Let's see them."

She swallowed, staring at him with suspicious uncertainty, before acquiescing. Her hands throbbed, though not as fiercely as they had initially, and the center of her palms grew red, even in the soft glow of the surrounding flowers. Fakir cupped the back of them and lifted higher so he could scrutinize the damage. Despite his calloused fingers, she had to admit that his hold was rather gentle, as if he really was capable of being concerned. Shifting uncomfortably, Ahiru dropped her gaze to look down at the concerned Uzura instead of the way Fakir's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed.

"Hmph. Could be worse." He fixed his gaze on her, his frowning softening. "Freya has something for this. Doesn't explain what possessed you to want to burn yourself."

She sighed, unable to meet his eyes for some reason. Instead, she turned to the half-burned book on the ground, and the stack of his other journals a few feet away (thankfully untouched). "I just … I know I wasn't  _supposed_  to read your stories, and I should've asked first." She rubbed at the base of her neck with her knuckles, wishing she still had her pendant with her. "I really am sorry. But … do you really have to get rid of them like that? They're good. I mean it. They're really, really good!"

Finally, Fakir dropped her hand. He adjusted the sling over his shoulder, expression dull, but at least he didn't seem angry anymore. "It's useless to keep them around at this point."

"It's not useless!" Her volume rose a bit, eyes wide. Beside her, Uzura cooed, kneeling down to poke at one of the glowing flowers, ignoring their conversation entirely. "With or without that power, you're still a great writer—!"

" _That_ ," he growled, expression hardening all over again, "is none of your business."

Yelling didn't solve anything last time, so she tempered herself. "It might not be! But you're really, really talented! And …" She took a deep breath. "You brought me all the way here, and you've been down here so long. I know that you want to sacri—you want me to give up my—you really want to break this curse. Don't you want to be able to write if you're finally free?" Her shoulders slumped. "Up there, at home, with the prince … I don't have talents like those. Shouldn't those things be treasured? Shouldn't you want to keep doing it, just because? Even without powers behind it, stories are so … so important!"

Slowly, the wrinkles of Fakir's brow softened, his eyes unreadable. She didn't know what to make of it. Then, he scoffed halfheartedly. "Even if I wanted to—which I  _don't_ —I don't have ink, and I'm out of practice. Why can't you just drop it?"

"I—!"

"Ohhhhh!" Uzura cooed. "They're awake-zura!"

Ahiru glanced over, and her jaw fell slack.

As Uzura hunched down over the flower, the gleaming petals began to spread, blooming further as a little lady bug emerged from within, gossamer wings fluttering with a shimmer. The fairy yawned cutely, and all around, a few scattered flowers likewise shifted as the lady bugs stirred throughout the meadow.

This is where the lady bugs lived? Ahiru brought her fingers to her lips in awe.

Their giggles chimed like bells, echoing and sweet. And after moments of soft laughter and the 'swish' of flittering wings, the lady bugs took flight like shooting stars in the darkness. A flurry of dancing lights, they left Ahiru utterly dazzled as they circled and twirled, filling the air with a soothing warmth. She'd forgotten how to breathe. There were so  _many_  of them!

Uzura released a high-pitched squeal of delight and scampered forward, jumping and sprinting back and forth across the meadow, dancing along with the playful lady bugs around her. And despite the throbbing pain in Ahiru's palms, she couldn't help but join in, leaving Fakir standing wordlessly where he was.

Somehow, as Ahiru spun clumsily on her toes and threw her arms out, welcoming the lady bugs to play with her hair and dance on her shoulders, she laughed, unrestrained and undaunted. She took Uzura's hand with her fingers, carefully avoiding pressing her palm against it, and together they bolted back and forth, dodging flowers and lady bugs in a playful game without rules or reason.

For the first time in many months, Ahiru felt light—like she was floating.

Finally, winded, the two girls collapsed into the ground, panting from the exhilaration. Ahiru's grin had yet to dissipate, her chest heaving up and down.

Then, she felt tiny hands on her cheek and turned to look. "Ah!" She recognized this lady bug in particular, with her long, flowing hair and billowing gown of light. "It's you!" The fairy from before, the one she'd met in her hut by her little lantern. "I missed you so much!"

After catching her breath, Ahiru sat up, cradling her favorite lady bug in the crook of her arm. The rest of the dancing fairies settled down, perching on flowers and twirling on petals. Some continued to buzz about here and there, linking hands and spinning together in the air, casting shimmers of light across Ahiru's features.

Uzura leaped to her feet and scampered back toward Fakir. And that was when Ahiru realized that he'd simply been watching, sitting silently on the stack of his books on the ground.

"Ohhhhh! Fakir-zura! They're all awake and dancing and it's so pretty-zura!"

Fakir remained silent for a moment, before tearing his gaze away and standing up. "Yeah. Come on, Uzura, settle down now."

After another moment, Ahiru stood up, still cradling the lady bug in her gentle hold. Slowly, she approached Fakir and Uzura, mindful about not stepping on any wayward fairies in the flowers. "I didn't know that this was down here. That these lady bugs  _lived_  down here! With all of you, all this time!" Even now, Ahiru couldn't stop smiling. "I didn't even know fairies or anything existed before coming down here."

Shrugging one shoulder, Fakir glanced away. "Lady bugs make their homes in sun flowers. They only ever grow in this area, and they sunk down into the ground with us. It's no wonder you never knew about them."

"Sun … flowers?" Ahiru released a mirthful laugh.

"What's so funny?" Fakir asked, eyebrow raised.

"I … never mind! I just … I get it! Makes sense!"

Then, Fakir snorted, the barest curl of a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. Ahiru took pause at that. "Idiot. Let's go. You still need those hands looked at." Uzura took it upon herself to scamper ahead toward the ladder, waving and greeting fairies as she passed.

"O-Oh." Ahiru's eyes fell down to the lady bug, who made herself quite comfortable in the crook of her arm. "Can I bring Lamp with me?"

"Lamp?"

"Mm! I don't know if lady bugs have names! So I figured I'd call her, 'Lamp'!" Ahiru might as well have sprouted silly wings of her own by way Fakir stared at her, so she spoke up in her own defense. "She's warm! And bright! And I found her dancing around the lantern in my room! It makes sense, it really does!" When his expression still had not changed, she fired back with, "You call them 'sun flowers' and 'lady bugs' and I can't call her 'Lamp'?!"

At this, Fakir actually looked … mildly amused. He shook his head and shrugged again. "Weirdo. Fine, take 'Lamp' with you, but hurry up before you irritate your hands even more."

She was the weirdo? He was a fire-breathing dragon-person with serious privacy issues, and she was the weirdo? She elected to keep that to herself, though. Instead, she had more pressing things on her mind. "What about your books?"

He was already walking off, following after Uzura as he called out over his shoulder, "If you like them so much, then keep them. I don't care."

Keep them?

Somehow, that little compromise wasn't so bad. Ahiru's smile returned, and she made a mental note to come back here for them.

Even with the time ticking away, could a little extra reading really hurt?

* * *

Montand believed that no time should be wasted. Even as he sat in his dreadfully bumpy carriage ride back to Rungholt, Prince Femio found himself with the daunting task of drafting and looking over the official declaration of war.

Really, all he had to do was sign it.

Why did the quill feel so heavy in his hand?

He'd signed many, many things in the past! Most of which he didn't even bother to read through beforehand! Was this truly so different? Hadn't Montand assured him that the war would be won and Siegfried's forces conquered within the span of a month or two?

Femio sighed dramatically, slumping back into his plush seat and staring out into the passing view. It was a shame. Vineta, capital city of Goldkrone Kingdom, and all of its surrounding regions, were quite beauteous.

Montand said it would all belong to Prince Femio sooner rather than later.

But would it be the same? Still so picturesque?

Ah well.

Another dramatic sigh, and Femio signed his name.


	9. Accelerando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But the stupid girl stayed, and calmed him in ways he’d never felt before. Her cool touch soothed him, stopped him before he destroyed everything they’d tried to preserve.
> 
> And for the life of him, he couldn’t be rid of the image of her running through the sun flower fields with Uzura, making the lady bugs dance with a joy and elation they hadn’t had in many years.
> 
> He hated that the sight made him want to write again.
> 
> Stupid girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all endlessly for the constant support and encouragement—every comment has me running around my room screaming with joy, no joke. It means the world to me, and really gets me motivated to put my best foot forward!
> 
> Again, please see the wonderful art that some amazing artists have graciously done for this fic. They are absolutely gorgeous, and can be directed to from my profile.
> 
> I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season! May your 2016 be a great one!

Ahiru stared down at her reddened palms with a pout, wincing now that she noticed the slight, throbbing sting of her burns.

About two steps ahead of her, Fakir held Uzura's hand, glancing over his shoulder as he led the way back to Freya's hut. Lamp sat upon Ahiru's shoulder, humming in a twinkling, bell-like voice. Returning to the higher levels of Wyvern somewhat darkened Ahiru's spirits as the glow of the flower field below disappeared from her sight, and the stares from the other villagers resumed just as before.

Maybe Fakir noticed the drop in her mood, because he frowned at Ahiru's expression. "How are they looking?"

"Ah, they're a little red, but it's nothing I can't handle!" She smiled. "Could be worse!"

"Right." As they approached their destination, he paused, adjusting his hold on Uzura's hand. "... I'm—that's—" Clearing his throat, he continued on. "Freya will fix it. Shouldn't be too bad."

"Are you really, really hurt, Duck-zura?"

"Not at all! I promise!" Her heart warmed at Uzura's concern, and she had a bit of an inkling that Fakir was a little worried, too.

When they arrived, Fakir dropped Uzura's hand and pulled back the heavy fabric, holding it open for her, the telltale scents of herbs and incense hitting their nostrils. Ahiru ducked under his arm to step inside and blinked in surprise to see Freya, Malen, Hermia, and Rue scattered about the hut, seemingly in the middle of a casual conversation. Freya busied herself at her desk, arranging some jars across one of her shelves and holding a few sprigs of rosemary. Malen had a sketchbook on her lap, and it dawned on Ahiru that she'd never seen her without one. Hermia and Rue sat together at the table, assisting Freya in organizing her collection of ingredients.

All eyes turned to Ahiru when she entered, and for a moment, she forgot why she came in the first place. Lamp touched her cheek in comfort and Uzura clung to her skirt.

Fakir took it upon himself to break the silence. "She needs a burn salve."

Freya placed the rosemary into a basket and turned to face them, serene eyes rippling with worry as she gracefully crossed the room to Ahiru. "A burn salve? Please, let me see."

Palms up, Ahiru revealed the reddened skin, her eyes downcast as the rest of the room continued to stare in her direction.

"Burns?" Rue sighed in exasperation. "What did you do, Fakir?"

"It wasn't his fault! I—" Ahiru bit her lip and glanced up, meeting Fakir's oddly steady gaze. "—I was being kind of careless."

"Well, don't you worry," Freya reassured, her smile warm, "This won't be a problem at all. Please, sit."

"Take over from here, Freya," Fakir said from the doorway, adjusting the sling on his shoulder. "And keep an eye out for her—the moron gets herself into too much trouble."

"Hey!"

At Ahiru's protest, Fakir, in one, brief instance, smirked before it vanished and his expression sobered again. "... And, sorry. About the burns."

He took his leave, the ladies in the room surprised by Fakir's unexpected apology, however little it might have been.

Then, Hermia cleared her throat and scooted over, patting the spot beside her with a bright smile. Ahiru slid onto the bench, feeling more comfortable beside Hermia than anyone else. "So! Who's your new friend?" she asked as she rested her cheeks in her palms as she turned her attention to the lady bug on Ahiru's shoulder.

"This is Lamp!"

"Oh! I see!" She tilted her head. "I can tell that she's been doing wonders for your mood! I'm glad to see you happier!" When Uzura scampered forward to climb onto the bench beside Ahiru, she laughed again. "You've been keeping a lot of good company!"

"Yeah. They're sort of making things easier to handle." Or as easy as things could be, given Ahiru's situation.

The more time passed, the less wretched she felt over it. Ahiru knew that Hermia, with her powers, undoubtedly felt that.

The hut was silent for a moment, but for the scratching of Malen's charcoal on paper. Freya moved quietly, pulling various and unnamed jars and bottles from the shelves. She plucked petals from a potted succulent (after asking for its permission first, of course), placed them into the bowl, and ground them together with other materials with a pestle and mortar.

"So," Rue began with a raised eyebrow, "how _did_ you get those burns?"

Ahiru let her gaze fall again, staring at Uzura leaning forward to play with a pinecone that sat on the table in front of her. "Well, Uzura and I went down where the flowers and the fairi—lady bugs live because I wanted to find Lamp. And Fakir was there, but he was trying to burn the books he wrote! So I … I grabbed it. N-Not that smart, but—!"

"Not smart at all." Rue huffed, but reached out to take the backs of Ahiru's hands to cradle them in hers, scrutinizing the blemished skin with a surprising amount of care and concern. "You shouldn't hurt yourself over something so trivial."

"It's not trivial! Why doesn't anyone see how great those stories are?"

Hermia's eyes widened, stricken by Ahiru's burst of emotion.

"My, my," Rue observed, "This is a subject you're completely incapable of dropping, isn't it?"

Freya hummed lightly to herself as she continued with her concoction. "The subject of Fakir's writing is a rather sensitive one—but I do remember his stories. It feels like an eternity since I've read them. They were wonderful, though I'd forgotten them until now."

"There was one I really liked, about a donkey who passed letters of affection between friends and lovers!" Hermia blushed, awkwardly twirling her finger through her curls. "That one was my favorite."

Shy, timid Malen finally joined in, staring fondly down at her sketchbook. "I remember … so many years ago, before … before everything happened. For a whole week, all I did was draw pictures of a dancer in one of his stories. She had such a sad, beautiful tale … with a very happy ending, too."

"He wrote me a story for my birthday once," added Rue, who took to staring down at the lines of the wooden table. "Of a Prince Who Loved Everyone, but chose to love his princess the most. I wonder where it had gone. Or even if it still exists."

The corners of Ahiru's lips curled up. Had they all truly forgotten his stories until now? Had he really kept them locked away all this time?

The effect he had on them was evident—it shown in their soft, imaginative gazes and tiny smiles. If only he had stayed a little longer. If only he was here to see the difference he made—even after three centuries of a silent quill.

Beside Ahiru, Uzura whined. "I don't know any Fakir-stories-zura!"

Rue straightened, shutting the gap in her composure. "Of course you haven't, Uzura. Fakir is no longer permitted to write. You know that."

Satisfied with her work, Freya approached Ahiru with the salve and clean bandages. "Here, now. Hold out your hands."

Obediently, Ahiru did so, biting her lip and turning her palms up. Freya wasted no time in applying the pasty salve onto Ahiru's burns, the cream cool and soothing on the dull throbs. Like magic, the pain eased. "Um … thank you."

"You're very welcome. It's no trouble at all."

Ahiru took a moment just to bask in the blessed relief, watching as Freya took great care in wrapping her palms in the bandages. There was more she wanted to say—she still marveled at the fondness in their memories of Fakir's stories. Did he used to publish them all those years ago? What could he have accomplished, had he the chance to put his work out there? Even beyond the borders of Wyvern, the world could've enjoyed the magic of Fakir's pages.

What could they all have accomplished? Would Malen's art be revered, displayed in prestigious museums and universities? Perhaps even in Prince Siegfried's Grand Chateau? What about Freya, and her ability to understand flora in a way the rest of the world couldn't, with her healing talents and grace? And Hermia could have changed the world with her infallible empathy, helping those in need of guidance and sense of self. Even Autor's work, his ability to reveal the past as it truly was, to document events that have long-since been forgotten.

Rue's dance would undoubtedly touch the hearts of everyone lucky enough to see her. Captivating and elegant, would she have become a legend like Ahiru's own mother, had their curse not fallen upon them?

These people were incredible.

Ahiru felt Hermia's hand on her shoulder, drawing her away from her dizzying thoughts. "It really bothers you, doesn't it? All of this … You must never know how to feel."

It continuously disarmed her, how easily they all could read her. Was it Hermia's power? Or was Ahiru just that predictable? "Um … I mean …!" She slumped, feeling their pitying gazes. They knew. They all knew what she must've been thinking. Uzura, with her wide, perpetually-curious eyes, was the only one Ahiru could bring herself to look at. At least Uzura didn't pity her like everyone else did.

Hermia caught on, and pulled her hand away.

Silence reigned for a while, and the ladies trickled out as the evening came (or at least, Ahiru's assumed so—it was still a trial, adjusting to days without the sun). Malen excused herself first, rubbing her eyes behind her glasses with a yawn as she bid them all good night. Hermia took to bed soon after with a final, comforting smile in Ahiru's direction.

Rue stood up when Uzura fell asleep on Ahiru's lap. Delicately, she lifted the child into her arms and away from Ahiru. "You should get some rest," she whispered as she tucked Uzura's head under her chin. "I'll walk you to your room." Then, she turned to Freya. "Good night."

Freya bowed her head in a small nod, her luxuriously long hair slipping from over her shoulder. "Good night, Rue."

With that, Rue led her outside, Uzura still asleep and Lamp resting in the crook of Ahiru's arm once more. The journey was silent and dark, and the rest of the village began to turn in as well, a hush settling over the dismal town. Ahiru was growing used to it.

When they reached her hut, Lamp retreated from her perch on Ahiru's shoulder to flutter to the corner, resting gently and comfortably in a broken basket filled with handkerchiefs, her warm glow casting shadows on the walls. The last of the candles flickered and paled in comparison to the slumbering lady bug's light.

Rue didn't leave immediately. Instead, her usual proud visage softened, her crimson eyes … rather kind. "... I'd forgotten how much I'd missed my brother's writing. Thank you for that. But it's caused Fakir just as much heartache as it has tragedy for the rest of us." She took a breath, adjusting Uzura in her arms.

Ahiru stared down at her bandaged hands and slumped down onto the bed, frowning. "So … it's really the end of it? That's all? Why do I feel so bad right now?"

" … Did you know I once tried to convince Elder to give ink to Fakir?"

"Eh?" Ahiru's head lifted. "You did?"

"Yes. But he turned me away." Rue crossed the room to sit on the bed beside her, still holding Uzura close. "Autor confirmed it for me; Fakir's powers had been utterly stolen. He can no longer change the world with his writing, even if he tried. Even if he wanted to. At least, not in the way he used to. So, Elder's decision to keep him from writing isn't about fear of storyspinning. This is about punishment. And so, any ink that is made is kept away from Fakir."

"You make all your ink?"

"Obviously. We don't have much—made by grinding certain plants into a powder, I think, but I didn't care enough to learn more. Elder keeps track of all of it through Freya and the other gardeners, just in case. It's for anyone else,mostly Autor, I'd imagine, but never Fakir."

"That isn't fair."

"No. It isn't. But I'm sure Fakir is accustomed to it, after so long. We haven't changed in almost three hundred centuries, and I doubt we ever will. But you ..." Rue, with all of her usual composure, calmed Ahiru's uneasiness with a smile, more gentle than she'd ever seen her. "I'm … grateful. And Fakir was different tonight. It was a small change, but I feel it. Freya was telling me that even the plants in the gardens are blooming with more enthusiasm, as if the very sunlight touched them when you came down to our village. Ahiru, perhaps you truly are our savior.

"I wish that things … could be different." She reached out to idly brush her long fingers through Uzura's hair beneath her chin. "I wish that we all could have met under better circumstances, and I wish that there was a better way to have our freedom. We are a selfish people, Ahiru. And we have suffered for too long. We can't choose you over our happiness. We can't choose you over Uzura's future.

"I'm not sorry. And yet, I am. Strange, isn't it?"

Rue said no more, rose to her feet with Uzura in her arms, and left Ahiru alone.

Perhaps the worst part of all of this was the cold, unfeeling fact that she actually understood where they were coming from.

And likewise, she understood now, the reason why she was so adamant about Fakir saving his stories. Continuing his work. Trying again.

They were the same. Just as he couldn't help his power being the cause of all their tragedies, she couldn't help being the descendant of the one who wrote them.

The dim light flickered across the walls as Lamp stirred in her makeshift bed, wings fluttering in thought as she took in Ahiru's expression. Ahiru threw her a weak smile in response. "S'okay," she mumbled, drawing her knees up to her chest and curling up on the bed. "It'll … It'll all be okay."

She couldn't see what Lamp was doing, but the little lady bug seemed to fish something out from beneath the pile of handkerchiefs. The glow she exuded brightened somewhat, like a tiny star.

In her arms, the fairy carried a single sun flower. And as if to give Ahiru a small measure of comfort, she buzzed across the room to her and placed the soft petals on the pillow beside her nose. They smelled sweet and reminded her of sunshine, like she was back in Hedeby, like she was a child all over again, like she could close her eyes and run around her favorite oak tree while her mother and father watched from their picnic blanket, the scent of their pink garden roses giving her the peace and comfort of home.

Ahiru swallowed down a sob and reached up to caress the flower, rubbing the shimmering, silky petals between the pads of her fingers, a small replacement for the pendant that she still had not gotten back. Soft, smooth, fragile … though, she found that if she rubbed hard enough, a glittering residue stained her skin just a bit. She tried to gently smear it off on the backs of her bandaged palms, and blinked in wonder as they left trails of light across the white fabric. The luster dimmed as it dried, and took on a silvery sheen, dark enough to be seen clearly.

Like ink.

* * *

Mytho never felt so exhausted in all his life.

He'd been up before dawn that morning when the swift declaration of war arrived. None had been surprised. Prince Femio was a spoiled child, displeased by his brief visit over some insignificant event, and given far too much power than he could handle.

The orders for all blacksmiths to forge greater weapons and armor had been sent out, and he knew of the unfortunate dent that would be put on the treasury as a result. General Lysander's forces were spread too thin, and some of the scouts who sought out his still-missing fiancee had to be called back (even despite the threat of bandits in untrodden lands). A royal decree was announced to the villagers today, asking for volunteers to lend their aid in the coming troubles, and while his subjects of all statuses eagerly came forward at their prince's plea, it would still be a stretch to compete with Prince Femio's vast numbers.

For the past few months, Mytho desperately endeavored to avoid war with Rungholt at all cost. And it became substantially clear why as he continuously signed document after document.

Now, in the darkness, alone in his bedchamber, resting on the seat by his grand windowsill, he felt numb. And cold. He didn't feel like himself.

After centuries of peace between these countries, why was it under _his_ rule that misfortune strikes so heavily and so swiftly? Why was Prince Femio such an imbecile, and why was Prince Siegfried the one to trifle with him? And why did his beloved fiancee disappear now, of all times?

Surely, had Lady Ahiru been here, he could've found strength with her. He remembered the pure blue of her eyes, her hair the color of a red sunset. She was sweet and demure in her manner, delicately long lashes batting from behind the coy flutter of her fan …

His princess. His future queen.

The darkest part of his aching heart mocked him. _She's probably dead by now._

His golden eyes flashed a sharp pink.

_It's because of you._

His heart squeezed agonizingly in his chest, and he doubled over in the sudden sharp clench behind his ribcage.

_You've destroyed your country._

His nails scraped and scratched angrily against the glass as he struggled to grip the curtains for support.

_You've killed her._

The cold ground caught him as he slumped over, his world going black.

_You are a curse on this world._

* * *

Ahiru didn't know what possessed her to pursue such a strange endeavor. She could have been researching more or taking some sort of action toward escape as she did in the previous week. But she threw herself into this new task as soon as she woke the next day (it seemed easier to gauge day from night now—she took a moment to marvel at this).

Resolute, she ground the glowing petals into the stone bowl with renewed vigor, careful not to aggravate her burned hands too much in the process (though Freya's magic salve did wonders for her).

Earlier in the week, while Ahiru assisted with her herbs and gardening, Freya allowed her to have a mortar and pestle with which to mix her own teas or fruit tonics. Today, she found a good use for it in this new mission.

The people of Wyvern never touched the sun flowers that grew in the deep, deep abyss. It was said among them that they belonged solely to the lady bugs, and even Freya dared not ask permission from the flowers to be used in any potions, salves, or rituals.

When Ahiru took her second venture to the glimmering field to retrieve Fakir's books with Lamp and Uzura in tow, however, the lady bugs flocked around her excitedly as if sensing her secret venture, showering her with the brightest flowers they could find. In Ahiru's presence, the petals almost bloomed with renewed energy. With excited and rambling words of thanks, Ahiru left the field with the books and a basketful of brilliant sun flowers, hiding the glow from the other villagers with a tattered tablecloth. Uzura was a tiny bundle of jubilation, and Lamp's light was warmer than ever before.

Ahiru didn't know the real process. She could only use what little Rue told her and her own experience with the sun flower to make what she could, and her injuries impeded her from doing consistent work. Uzura seemed to have more success with it, actually—her finer powder mixed well with the drops of water Lamp thought of pouring into the mix. Uzura was just a truly lucky little girl.

So, Ahiru followed their example, and kept to herself most of the day to work on her little project. At one point, Rue came to check on her, to which Ahiru replied by throwing her thin blanket over her work and bolting to her feet, nervously rocking back and forth on her heels while blurting out her reassurances that she was doing fine.

Rue appeared understandably suspicious, but thankfully left her to her own devices. "Don't forget to eat," she reminded with a frown before she took her leave. In a strange way, Ahiru felt touched by Rue's quiet concern.

She resumed her work. And, as her mind tended to do while she set about a mindless task, it began to wander.

A strange thought struck her then—the thought that she stopped thinking of Mytho as often.

She blushed. It wasn't that she'd forgotten him—on the contrary, dreams still brimmed with images of his handsome face, his warm smile, his golden eyes in the sunset—but, shamefully, her hopes of reaching him and seeing him again dimmed over the time that passed.

Was that wrong? Two weeks ago, it would've been.

Two weeks ago, she wanted to see him. She wanted to get married and be his queen, and help him rule a country that she … knew next to nothing about. Her life was a dream that she never woke from. And when she finally did wake, it was to this nightmare.

The true reality, though, poured harshly and heavily onto her shoulders. In the grand scheme of everything she knew, she put nothing out into the world that had given her so much. She loved people, but she couldn't rule the way a queen should. She honestly made a lousy duchess, too, especially compared to her mother before her.

She was talentless. She was plain. She was just born into the right family—and born into the _wrong_ one, too.

If she accepted her fate, if she gave up her life, would there be happiness? Would those of Wyvern be able to fill the world with more than she ever could?

Was this truly what she was _meant_ for?

Ahiru stared dully at the ground petals in the bowl, and Uzura put her hand on her shoulder. "Duck-zura? Are you okay-zura?"

"Ah … I-I'm okay! I think."

What would her selfless mother do? What would noble Mytho do?

At least making this would be somewhat of an accomplishment—it was the only thing she knew she _had_ to finish. After that … she would figure things out. Before time ran out.

So, she resumed her work, feeling enlightened and resenting it.

* * *

General Lysander and Karon stood before the training grounds, watching as the knights sparred with one another. Soon, Raetsel joined them, satisfied that the rest of the servants had everything under control in the household.

"His Highness was slow to wake this morning," she sighed.

Karon nodded. "He's understandably exhausted."

"Is that truly all, though? Exhaustion is one thing, but he may be _distraught_ at this point. Our poor prince …"

It was then that Prince Siegfried himself stepped forward into the courtyard. All ceased their activities and lowered into a deep bow in his direction, awaiting his signal to continue. With a lift of his hand, they resumed.

Only his three, closest attendants noticed the dark circles under his eyes (a pink hue—likely from a lack of sleep, they imagined). Other than that and the stern, stoicness of his expression, he seemed as groomed and composed as he ever did. He stared the knights down with a critical eye, as if judging their movements against one another.

The prince stepped forward, looking dissatisfied, and beckoned to a pair of sparring knights. "Stop," he commanded.

The two men—Demetrius and a soldier named Hans—immediately did so and knelt to their knee with lowered practice swords.

"Rise, Sir Demetrius. And hand me your weapon."

"Aye, Your Highness!"

"Sir Hans, do you accept a challenge of a spar from your prince?"

Hans lifted his gaze in awe. "O-Of course, Your Highness! It would be an honor!"

Lysander, Karon, and Raetsel exchanged confused glances, but said nothing otherwise. If there was any time for Prince Siegfried to practice with his men instead of his proper tutor, it would be now.

Demetrius cleared out of the area as the rest of the knights likewise turned to watch their prince and their comrade, some whispering excitedly and others attentively seeking the technique behind the two men.

And it didn't take long at all to see the differences between him. Hans moved with the same strength and prowess that knights of Vineta were trained to have, with solid footwork and defensive stances. His every swing clanged appropriately with the prince's fluidity, Siegfried's arcs and jabs studying and testing.

Until the prince frowned, impatient.

In the blink of an eye, Siegfried's movements shifted from curious evaluation to an absolute onslaught.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd as Siegfried gripped his practice sword with feverish force and swung with a shocking ' _clang'_ against Hans' blade. Clash after clash, Hans stumbled backward on the complete defensive, eyes wide and sweat rolling down from his temple as he attempted to parry the blows. All the while, Prince Siegfried's eyes grew sharp, fierce, almost angry.

All could only watch until Hans found himself stumbling over his own feet, crumpling to the ground with distressed panting. Above him, Siegfried, tall and poised, stared coolly down at the fallen knight. "Train harder, Sir Hans. War is afoot." He dropped the practice blade to the ground and walked back into the Chateau, scratching his chest above his heart.

Stunned, General Lysander, Karon, and Raetsel remained frozen for a long moment, before Demetrius darted forward to tend to his stricken friend on the ground. They finally snapped back into reality, immediately following after to surround Hans and Demetrius, Raetsel taking it upon herself to kneel by his side and check him for injuries. "Sir Hans," she began with a quivering voice, "Do you need to go to the infirmary?"

"N-No, Miss Raetsel … I think I'm alright."

Karon rubbed his temples. "You were right. His Highness is … gravely distressed. Perhaps we'll need someone to give him some guidance. Be there for him in a way we cannot."

"Aye," Lysander interjected, "but who? His Highness isn't … well, he's not talking to any of us, so who can reach him at this point?"

"His only living relative. His uncle, the scholar from Kunz." He frowned at Raetsel's sigh of aggravation at this. "Regardless of his eccentricism, Miss Raetsel, we must send word to him immediately."

* * *

Alarmingly enough, Fakir felt inspired.

It was bizarre and frustrating, feeling such a thing after _centuries_ without a quill in his hand (and he was perfectly happy with never touching one again). But he vowed to himself that he would never write another page for the rest of his pathetic existence with or without powers, and everyone around him found it perfectly satisfying to aid him in this endeavor.

Until Ahiru. That stupid girl. That stupid, stupid girl who would not let him forget about the past he thought he buried away. And even after she unearthed those useless memories, she succeeded in stopping him from burning them from existence completely.

What a pest.

Ever since he picked her up from that castle-town and ripped her away from her prince forever, she'd been nothing but a little, annoying, bug of a pest.

She was incapable of leaving well enough alone, wasn't she? Part of him almost regretted ever finding her and bringing her to this place at all. If not for her necessary sacrifice …

His eyebrow twitched as he scowled at the wall, sitting on his cot as he slowly changed the dressing of his wounds.

There was a time when he couldn't look upon her and that stupid pendant she used to wear without disdain, without remembering those hideous, swirling amber eyes, that laughter …

… Now, he couldn't even see how someone like her could be Drosselmeyer's descendant.

He'd seen her with the others. Huffy and loud, but ultimately kind to her captors. Clumsy, with a short attention span, but determined and good-natured.

Also, stupid. She was so stupid. She had the one chance to take back her freedom—when a trivial scuffle with Autor almost cost Wyvern even more lives than they'd already lost. Fakir was very much aware that, of all times, that was the one of which to take advantage.

But the stupid girl stayed, and calmed him in ways he'd never felt before. Her cool touch soothed him, stopped him before he destroyed everything they'd tried to preserve.

And for the life of him, he couldn't be rid of the image of her running through the sun flower fields with Uzura, making the lady bugs dance with a joy and elation they hadn't had in many years.

He hated that the sight made him want to write again.

Stupid girl.

Fakir ignored the bitterness that spread across his tongue at the thought of her eventual sacrifice and stretched out, satisfied with his work on his bandages.

Recently he'd tried to keep to himself, at least until Ahiru lifted their curse. It was only a matter of time. When they reached the surface, after Uzura's future could be established, after Rue settled in to have her new life, he'd leave. He'd live the rest of his life away from Wyvern, and if fate deemed it so, he'd be able to forget everything. He'd be able to forget the past that he feared so deeply.

And his plan would start now, by giving _that girl_ a wide berth from now on. She had his stories. She'd be satisfied until the day came when she would have to die.

He rolled onto his back, attempted to find a comfortable position as he favored his injured shoulder, and let his eyes fall shut.

"Um … Fakir?"

His eyes flew back open and he sat up, jaw falling slack as the one girl he was determined to avoid stood right there at his doorway. Great. He tried to ignore the weird, unsettled sensation in his stomach when he saw her. "What do you want?"

She scratched the back of her head, her freckled cheeks turning red in the meager light of his lantern. "Sorry I woke you! I thought it was still early! I guess I'm still getting used to being without sunlight. But you know, I'm getting better at it, honest! Just this morning, I got up pretty quickly to work on something, and you might like it, but I guess I didn't notice how much time has gone by—!"

Fakir pinched the bridge of his nose. "Slow down, idiot."

"'M not an idiot!"

"Just tell me what you want."

He met her pout with a dull raise of his eyebrow, and when her frown slowly curled back up into a tiny smile, he averted his gaze. The girl waddled further into his hut, her hands behind her back and her braid swishing back and forth behind her. "I … I have something for you! And it's a gift, so you can't give it back!"

Fakir snorted. "A gift."

"Yes! A gift!"

The wrinkles above his brow smoothened and his lips parted when she pulled a small parcel out from behind her. An old handkerchief, wrapped around a nameless object with twine. "Open it!" she demanded, her grin growing.

He gave her a side-glance, bewildered and suspicious. What could the prisoner of Wyvern possibly want to give him, and why? Wasn't she so determined to get out of here?

… And when was the last time anyone but Uzura wanted to give _him_ something?

She only continued to stare at him, her grin spreading and her eyes hopeful, holding out the parcel insistently.

Wordlessly, he took it with his uninjured hand. Then, he pulled at the end of the twine bow, letting the wrap fall open in his lap.

It was a small jar, filled with a dark, silvery liquid. The material swished innocently in its container, and in the light of his lantern, it shimmered, almost like light.

"It stains paper and fabric!" Ahiru explained, rolling back and forth on her heels and displaying dark markings that marred the white bandages around her hands. "Now you have no excuse!"

"How did you—?"

"We have to keep it a secret! I found out you're not allowed to have any, but this might make you feel better and try again."

He almost felt angry. He'd given all of that up—not just at Elder Raven's behest, but because he simply chose not to, right? He couldn't. He _wouldn't_.

His powers were gone. That was a fact he couldn't deny. He'd lost that itch, that pull of the universe, that touch of magic. What good would _this_ do?

Just as he was about to stand up to give her a piece of his mind, she stubbornly pressed a hand to his uninjured shoulder. "Just … keep it. You don't have to use it or anything! But at least it's definitely not kept away from you anymore. That's the most important thing." She puffed out her chest. "No one should make that decision _for_ you! It … it has to come from you, for sure."

Her eyes glimmered, swimming with thoughts that must've just come to her at that moment, though he couldn't imagine what they were.

They fell into mutual silence, her gaze falling and his own glued to the jar still in his lap.

And the more he stared at the shimmering fluid, the more he began to wonder …

He didn't want to dare himself to try. And, yet …

Glancing up, he watched her conflicted expression, and began to consider it. He stood and walked past her, placing the jar onto the table.

… What sort of stories _could_ he think of?

What could he write with the ink that she created for him? What could he write with the inspiration she infused into his empty being?

And how was it possible that he was able to inspire _her_ , so much so that she wanted so badly to see more? So much that she would do this for him?

"... Thanks," he muttered, unable to think of anything else.

"... Mm. You're welcome!"

Her heavy expression lightened, and she gave him a smile—one that reached the blues of her eyes and made them come to life.

The room grew cold when she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by Docktor Locktor


	10. Rubato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last time Fakir held a quill between his fingers, he wrote about catching a fish.
> 
> He remembered the air going still, the surface of the water undisturbed. The universe held its breath for him, awaiting his next words as the tip of the feather scraped across the rough pages of his book. That the world would wait in such anticipation for such a silly command like that—that the world would bend and shift to the will of his words for something as frivolous as delivering him dinner was … laughable.
> 
> He'd been so stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for all your support! Please let me know if there's any way I can improve! Any and all feedback is appreciated!

The last time Fakir held a quill between his fingers, he wrote about catching a fish.

He remembered the air going still, the surface of the water undisturbed. The universe held its breath for him, awaiting his next words as the tip of the feather scraped across the rough pages of his book. That the world would wait in such anticipation for such a silly command like that—that the world would bend and shift to the will of his words for something as frivolous as delivering him dinner was … laughable.

He'd been so stupid.

His fingers swept through the soft barbs of the duck feather in front of him, the small jar of shimmering ink on the opposite side of a blank, open page.

Centuries ago, he practiced both fiction and truth. Proper story-spinning required responsibility. There was a hefty weight in his quill, and every drag and stroke of ink brimmed with possibility and danger. With care and focus, he could make the world budge. Sometimes. Bending reality itself was a burdensome task.

Fakir rested his head between his hands, his brow furrowing and jaw clenching. He laid out the tools before him—the quill, the page, and the ink that Ahiru created—and still he could not bring himself to reach out and try again.

There was no shift in the stagnant air of Wyvern, no bated breath of the universe. How could there be when Drosselmeyer viciously ripped Fakir apart and snatched away the very power of possibility from within him? And that wizard shamed Fakir in the worst way—he disregarded responsibility and spat on the ways of the world, writing with loose fingers and flippant selfishness, changing reality as he saw fit. And so, he left destruction in his wake.

Did that make Drosselmeyer better than Fakir? More powerful? More free to use that power to the fullest extent?

Fakir's hands curled into tight, whitening fists. He _wouldn't_ be like that.

Not that it mattered anymore. The void within him felt emptier now more than ever. He was barren. His power was undeniably, completely, and utterly _gone_.

" _Shouldn't you keep doing it, just because?"_

Fakir's eyes snapped open, his gaze gravitating to the silvery ink.

" _Even without powers behind it, stories are so … so important!"_

She said it herself. That girl, the same who wouldn't leave well enough alone, the one who persisted in her nosiness, the one who burned herself on his fire just to save centuries-old stories, never wavered when it came to his writing.

His fingers went back to the quill, curling lightly around it.

" _You don't have to use it or anything! But at least it's definitely not kept away from you anymore."_

The ink glimmered, the flickering light of the lantern dancing off the liquid and reminding him of the way her blue eyes rippled with life.

" _No one should make that decision for you! It … it has to come from you! For sure."_

The quill used to sit heavily between his fingers when he wrote. He remembered each letter etching itself into the pages of reality as he crafted the story of people's lives. He gave them happy endings, each and every one of them to the best of his ability, to the extent of his influence, the weight of his quill a constant reminder of the power he once wielded.

But power left him long ago, and he knew that.

This time, he realized with wry amusement, the quill seemed delicate and natural as he dipped it into Ahiru's ink. The silver liquid clung to the tip of the feather, and he gave it a light tap against the lip of the jar to drop the excess.

Fakir thought of her, holding Uzura's hand, surrounded by a flutter of flowers and dancing lady bugs, red braid swinging behind her, eyes wide, smile bright. He thought of the warmth in her touch, drawing him from the chaos and darkness at the cusp of losing himself to a dragon's rage. While he was no longer a story-spinner, and while he could no longer bend the universe to his will, he felt inspired.

Just like Ahiru said. He could write, just because he wanted to.

So, he did.

* * *

Prince Femio had every reason to feel confident. He just skimmed over the plans for new siege machines and found them to be quite impressive. His army undoubtedly dwarfed Prince Siegfried's forces significantly. Victory was within his grasp, and war hadn't even started yet.

Shifting in his seat, he released a sigh and flexed his fingers as one of his beautiful slaves filed his nails. Grooming usually relaxed him, so what could possibly unsettle him this much? He certainly disliked this feeling—being a prince promised endless ease and comfort!

This was … unsatisfactory!

He pouted at his servant, dissatisfied. With a second sigh, he pulled his hand away from her and stood. "Ah, enough now. A prince of my delicate state grows weary from such mundane activities~!" He wiped a tear from his eye and sauntered toward the door that led out to the hall. "I know, I know, you must be utterly _heartbroken_ at my retreat, but alas, while your attentions have captured me for a short, passionate while, I cannot bequeath my entire heart unto you~!"

Soon, he stood in the echoing, grand halls of Rungholt Palace, alone. A chill swept through him to the bone despite the heavy, fur-lined and embroidered cape that draped over his shoulders.

Perhaps he ought to seek out his favorite, most trusted valet. The other servants hardly spoke to him unless he demanded their attention (for they must've been driven _speechless_ by being in the presence of his elegance~!), and while Montand was a quiet man, he was as close to the prince as any attendant could be. There was no one else.

Sweeping through the corridors toward Montand's chambers, he only began to notice just then how empty his castle felt. Slaves and soldiers lingered about, bowing as he passed, as natural and required for subjects of such lowly stature to their sovereign. Thoughts of Prince Siegfried's Grand Chateau found him then—the advisors' loyalty, the housekeeper's attentiveness, the care and respect with which they treated the estate and the prince himself—and he did something he never thought he'd ever do.

He began to envy Prince Siegfried.

As soon as this realization dawned on him, he buried it, forcing a dazzling grin to his face and squaring his shoulders. There was no time for such silly musings! They were preposterous!

He reached Montand's chambers in due time, and Femio let himself in without preamble. "Ah, Montand, my dear and most loyal subject, I—!"

Montand brought his finger to his lips.

As always, his valet's chambers were dim, lit only by simple candlelight in several places around his room. Femio found Montand kneeling in a circle of red rose petals and candles more often than not as of late, so he remained unsurprised to see this again. With a pout, Femio entered and sat at the nearby desk, disappointed that Montand diverted his attention elsewhere.

He was beginning to wonder just what sort of prayers Montand took part in. In such a notable time as this, when Montand had been the most enthusiastic to engage in war, one would think that he'd be paying notice to more pressing matters.

Femio rarely questioned things, but …

"Montand, there are many things we ought to discuss, and I'm feeling rather tired of waiting. Are you almost finished?"

At this, Montand turned to look over his shoulder, shadows cast over his eyes as he nodded. And Femio couldn't place why, but the crooked smile Montand gave him sent a chill down his spine.

* * *

In the back of his mind, Siegfried heard a clock ticking.

It echoed with the steady, heavy pound of his pulse, like a pendulum, blood pumping with its tempo. He grew more accustomed to the constant clench around his heart after a while, until the dull sting of the claws digging into his chest throbbed in time with the phantom gears grinding behind his ribs.

It was only a matter of _time_ , he supposed. As he sat at the windowsill, watching the lights in the darkness go out one by one across the village surrounding the Grand Chateau, he began to realize that the pain eased somewhat by simply succumbing to it.

He smiled softly and ignored his aching spirit crying out into his ears. _Hush now_ , he whispered to himself, _it's alright. Rest. Stop fighting. It's easier this way._

The welts that he clawed into his chest above his heart no longer burned and itched. The weight of anguish and loss lightened until he barely felt it at all. He locked it away with the part of himself that continued its attempt to struggle back to the surface.

The prince almost chuckled at himself. In the deepest reaches of his heart, he knew he cried out for his country, his people, his future queen. War lingered just beyond the horizon, able-bodied villagers bid farewell to their families as they joined in the cause, and somewhere, out in the distance of a forever away, his fiancee might've been dead.

His Ahiru would make all of this go away, he was sure. But she wasn't here. So, it was easier to drown in the numbness than try to endure any longer. Only a matter of time.

Prince Siegfried's smile widened, the last of his clear, golden eyes shining a foggy pink as his clock struck twelve.

Inside, he continued to scream.

* * *

Delving into the past was risky business. Autor sighed and leaned back in his chair, adjusting his glasses and cracking his neck. They only had a month or so before they sacrificed the girl and achieved freedom, so he had his work cut out for him.

He seemed to have finished the majority of it, though. For that, he'd be grateful, considering the taxing effect of the process on his mind and body.

Everyone made such a big deal about _Fakir's_ old responsibility (that he didn't even have anymore), but they never once considered how demanding or how punishing it could be to experience and preserve history all on Autor's own. His frown deepened as he glanced down at the document he'd just written—and by extension, experienced.

He had his good days and his bad. In general, he found it easier to unearth the past if he'd been a part of it, and more difficult to sift through the sands of time for events unrelated to him or those he knew. But that was only logical.

Reaching out for his tea and bringing the cup to his lips, he let his eyes scan the document he just wrote. At last, he'd figured most of it out after many months of searching. Elder Raven would be pleased.

Finally, Autor could make someone proud.

Just then, the heavy cloth draped over the entrance to the meager library shifted, a short figure slipping inside into the lantern light. He raised an eyebrow, aggravated that his good mood suddenly plummeted at the sight of the sacrifice.

He had the same problem the majority of the village had. They couldn't look at her. Almost three hundred years passed, and Drosselmeyer's blood surely thinned over the course of the centuries, but she was still the last piece of him left in the world. For that, Autor hated her.

They'd given one another a wide berth after his little accident, thankfully (an accident that had been entirely her's and Fakir's fault, no less), so he bristled at the girl's sudden unwanted appearance. "Can I _help_ you?"

She froze, giving him an uncomfortable, shaky smile. "A-Ah—I'm sorry to bother you, I just—I was just wondering if I could have some paper?"

He snorted. She probably got sent to retrieve it for Malen. He heard that the girl had been spending time with some of the more _sensitive_ people in this village. Hermia, Freya, and Malen probably felt sorry for Drosselmeyer's descendant.

Now, the idea of her finding companionship in _Rue's_ company surprised him. He never expected Rue to bother with the sacrifice in the way she had. More often than not, he found them doing chores together, strolling around their village together, _laughing_ together.

Not once did he see Rue look so at ease, no matter how he tried.

His eyes narrowed behind his spectacles and he reached over for some spare sheets. "Hmph. Here, then."

Hopefully she would just grab her paper and leave. Her presence was stifling. And as the one person able to relive the moment Drosselmeyer ripped everything away from them with vivid, gruesome detail, she only served as a harsh, ditzy, dumb little reminder of betrayal and disappointment.

Drosselmeyer. The legendary mystic. One of the most powerful wizards in existence. The stories of the wonders he performed and the miracles he enacted enchanted Autor since he'd been a small boy. And the day Drosselmeyer arrived in their quiet, isolated village was supposed to be the day he would fulfill his dreams of becoming the wizard's apprentice.

But Drosselmeyer already had an apprentice. And if there was anyone the wizard took an interest in during his fateful visit to Wyvern, it was Fakir. It was always Fakir. Brother to Rue, a story-spinner, a waste of precious talent.

The girl stepped forward to pick up the sheets, but hesitated for a long moment, just staring at him with a dumb look on her face. "Well? Go on! Can't you see that I'm busy here?"

"I-I know! I—right. Sorry! I was just glad to see you're doing a little better, after the whole thing when you changed and … well, Fakir's doing well, too! Everyone's healed!" She gave him a blinding smile.

What was this girl playing at? Not more than a month ago, she almost caused him to ruin what was left of Wyvern entirely! Now, she grinned like nothing was wrong with the world, oblivious and idiotic, like she, the spawn of their enemy, didn't succeed in achieving what Autor always wanted: giving Rue happiness.

Always, there was someone better.

"Anyway," she continued, holding the stack of pages close to her chest, "Thank you! Good luck with whatever work you're doing!"

As she whirled around and left, Autor's shook his head. This ditz was Drosselmeyer's true descendant? Had the madman intentionally written the last of his bloodline to be so simple-minded?

He thought of Rue's smile and recent good humor, and realized with a heavy dread that this must've been the wizard's true punishment.

With a clench of his jaw, he set back to work, his quill poised over the page and his mind bracing itself for another vision of the past.

Almost finished. And then he would have the happiness that Elder Raven promised to them all.

* * *

Karon sent word to the city of Kunz by dove. A day later, their reply arrived, and the castle bustled with activity in preparation for the prince's uncle. Raetsel oversaw the majority of it, keeping the staff's spirits light and optimistic. Meanwhile, Karon dealt with the finances and supplies of this new campaign and General Lysander handled the army itself.

In the midst of their responsibilities, they'd neglected their prince. However, Raetsel had a distinct feeling that he wouldn't have allowed them to focus on him while so much had to be done.

A week rolled by, and now that Raetsel fell into a solid routine and the prince's uncle would arrive any day now, she took a moment to stop and realize that Prince Siegfried had been mysteriously … distant. It was utterly unlike him to refrain from taking an active role in the crucial dealings of being a country at war. While she never intended on pushing him, he just didn't seem himself.

Perhaps everything just became too much for him. He needed help more than ever before. He needed their support. She wasn't particularly fond of Siegfried's uncle, but if anyone could reach him, then surely …!

She sighed, balancing a tray of finger sandwiches, pastries, and tea against her hip as she knocked on his door. Did he even eat today? "Your Highness? May I come in?"

When only silence greeted her, she tried again, concerned. "Your Highness?"

" … Yes, come in, Raetsel."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise at the rather cordial, pleasant intonation of his voice. Had his mood improved so suddenly? She reached out while adjusting the tray at her hip and turned the knob.

His bedchambers, usually with open windows and full of natural light, were dim, and Siegfried, usually composed and dignified whenever he could help it, still sat in bed, dressed in a flowing undershirt. The royal blue curtains hung loose from his canopy on three sides, framing his pale form as he rested against his pillows.

He smiled, his eyelids heavy. "Ah, good morning."

"Good … good morning, Your Highness. Are you feeling alright?" She placed the tray onto an ottoman near the door and crossed the room to press her hand against his forehead. "Have you fallen ill?"

"Oh, no, no, I'm just fine." He took her hand from his forehead, holding it between his own, and he looked at her with hazy, pinkish eyes.

"Are—are you sure? You seem—"

"Raetsel, do you love me?"

In the dark of his canopy, the shadows beneath his eyes seemed heavier, but his soft smile remained. And his hands were cold upon her own. Raetsel stepped back, but he didn't release her. "Your Highness …?"

"As more than just a prince, Raetsel. Do you love me?"

"... We all love you, Your Highness. We care for you and—"

"If I asked you for your heart, would you give it to me?"

She froze, unnerved and confused. She thought of Lady Ahiru, his fiancee, the future queen, the one a good number of knights still sought out weeks after her abduction. Karon and Lysander would never admit to it, but they lost hope in Lady Ahiru's survival at this point. Had Prince Siegfried likewise given up?

Even so, why was he—?

"Y-You _must_ be ill, Your Highness," she insisted, swallowing thickly and trying to pull away from Siegfried's tightening grip around her hand, "Please, you've had a long month; surely, you—"

The pinkish hue of his eyes sharpened. "So, you wouldn't. That is your answer. You would _leave_ me, like they all do."

"I would never leave you, Your Highness! I simply—please let me go—!"

He jerked her closer, teeth gritting. "Then promise! Promise to give your love to _me_!"

"Mytho!" she cried out, tugging back with increasing desperation, " _Stop_!"

His eyes flashed back to warm gold, and he jerked away from her as if burned by her touch. He snapped his body to the side, burying his head into his pillow as his hands gripped at his shirt over his heart, trembling. "I … I'm s-sorry, Raetsel … I don't … please leave," came his quivering, muffled reply.

Raetsel didn't stay to comfort him.

She scrambled toward the door, slammed the door closed after her, and bolted through the corridors. She ignored the startled glances and the concerned calls, never stopping until she found Karon in the conference hall with the other royal advisors. By the time she reached the chamber, her tears welled up and fell freely, undoubtedly ruining her powdered cheeks.

Karon rose to his feet. "Miss Raetsel? What happened?!" He took her shoulder and steered her out the door where the other advisors wouldn't be able to overwhelm her with questions.

"Th-the prince—he _frightened_ me, Karon, he was being so strange and his eyes—!"

He offered her a handkerchief from his breast pocket, the lines of his wrinkled forehead deepening. " _Mytho_ frightened you? What do you mean?"

"He asked me … strange questions. Asking if I loved him, or if I'd give him my heart—he wasn't himself!"

Karon swallowed thickly, rubbing her back in comfort and shaking his head. Between the war and his missing fiancee, Prince Siegfried must've been under so much pressure, but this …? "Don't worry, Miss Raetsel. Keep your distance from him for now. We'll … we'll figure it out."

Raetsel wanted to argue; she saw the threatening sharpness in his eyes, the venom in his voice, and the cold squeeze of his hands around her own. He was a stranger. How could anyone possibly _figure it out_?

But she was interrupted when one of the heralds jogged up to them, announcing with a smile, "The company from Kunz is here! They've arrived!"

Karon breathed a sigh of relief, and Raetsel quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks, attempting to stifle her sobs for the sake of professionalism in the face of their important guest. She adjusted herself and put on a brave face, leading the way to the grand foyer and letting Karon trail after her. Siegfried frightened her and she resolved to stay away for now, but this needed fixing and hopefully his uncle would be the shining light of guidance that they needed.

She straightened, looking as dignified as she could manage, while Karon and Lysander stood on either side of her exchanging worried glances.

The large doors opened as the philosopher and scholar of Kunz and uncle to Prince Siegfried stepped in, poised and elegant. With sharp, yet warm eyes and a mustache resembling whiskers, Mr. Cecil Katz immediately demanded their attention with his presence of quiet authority alone. He greeted the three with a gracious smile and a bow, his eyes twinkling as he beheld Raetsel's sultry beauty.

"Afternoon, lady and sirs," Mr. Katz purred, "I thank you for calling upon me. Miss Raetsel, still unmarried?"

She giggled behind her hand, swallowing back her sigh of aggravation and hopefully concealing the remnants of her panic from earlier. This was to be expected. "And I plan to remain so, Mr. Katz."

His expression fell, but he recovered quickly. "Well, it's a pleasure to see each of you again. I wish it had been under better circumstances.

"Now then, where is my nephew, _nyah_ ~?"

* * *

Ahiru had twenty-two days left. She'd been counting.

She wasn't scared anymore, though. She made her decision, all on her own.

Instead of fretting and studying, she'd spent the past week or so making good use of her time with the only friends she made in Wyvern. Uzura and Lamp were her constant companions, never leaving her side, and she took quite of bit of joy in telling Uzura all about the world above and the fun things to do out in the daylight. The drummer girl seemed particularly excited for the idea of rain and snow, or anything to do with the sky, really. Endlessly precocious and curious, she never once stopped asking questions about clouds, the sun, the moon, and the stars.

Freya taught her how to make a delicious tea with herbs and fruit, and with Freya's regular treatments, the burns on Ahiru's palms healed completely (along with Fakir's wounds, thankfully, but he still maintained a new scar to join the one he already had). She asked Ahiru about the flora of the current world, wondering if, in three hundred years, plant life had changed significantly. Ahiru, of course, didn't know how to answer most of the questions, but Freya seemed pleased that peonies, violets, and hydrangeas still existed.

Malen sketched two very pretty pictures for her: her coastal home in Hedeby, with the beach in the distance, and her favorite oak tree next to the duck pond, and a portrait of Ahiru's would-be husband, Prince Siegfried, with his kind eyes, handsome features, and noble posture. The drawings sat on the desk in Ahiru's hut, a warm reminder of her happiest memories, and Malen seemed genuinely touched that she liked them so much.

Hermia was her greatest comfort when Ahiru had been most afraid of the fate she now accepted—they cried together just two nights before when Ahiru woke from a rather dreadful nightmare. Coming to terms with her destiny became easier, knowing that someone else in Wyvern felt exactly what she was going through.

Even Raven had been cordial, though Ahiru still couldn't feel at ease in his company. As she went to harvest some herbs from the garden for Freya, he intercepted her with a cordial grin, holding her red pendant in his hand. Odd. She'd stopped needing it for some time now. "Now that you've settled down, I think you may have this back," he told her, his crimson eyes sharp though his lips formed a soft smile. She mumbled her thanks, feeling the weight of the red jewel in her hands. Before, she would only think of her mother's warmth. Now, she thought of her ancestor's cruelty.

Regardless, Ahiru decided to wear the jewel, no longer needing it for strength, but bearing it as a symbol of sins she never committed and could never forget.

It felt heavier around her neck than before.

At least Rue agreed to teach her how to dance.

Granted, Ahiru lacked the natural talent for such a thing, but when she confided to Rue about her mother's beauteous and inspiring dance, Rue's usually proud eyes softened, and lessons began soon after. The opportunity meant the world to Ahiru, and for all of Rue's haughtiness, she was a patient teacher (or at least she forced herself to be for Ahiru's sake).

Over the past week, she'd come to see that Fakir and Rue really did act alike. Both harsh and a bit prickly, but so, so kind.

After all, Fakir allowed her to read his newest story!

That was a miracle in itself, considering how much she pestered him about it these last few days. Every evening, she marched into his hut with Uzura and Lamp right behind her, looking over his shoulder and seeing the shimmering silver strokes forming into his own, new words. They would sit on his bed with a bowl of berries and nuts on her lap and just chat, quite possibly ruining his concentration. Despite the annoyed glances over his shoulder, however, she did catch him smirking every so often.

Once, he turned to face her directly and said, "Hey, think you can go and grab paper from the library?"

Her eyes lit up. "Oh! You need more?"

"Yeah. But like you said," he muttered as he turned back to his half-written page, "it's a secret. Don't say it's for me."

By the end of the week, he told her he was done. Of course, she excitedly asked for permission to read it.

Thus, she found herself with twenty-two days left, resting on her belly and elbows in a field of glowing sun flowers and flipping through his pages. Lamp, who sat quietly on her shoulder, illuminated the words for her with her radiant wings while Uzura played with the other lady bugs nearby. And a few feet away, Fakir lay down, his eyes closed and hands folded under his head.

As she reached the last couple of lines, she sighed in contentment, turning her gaze to the writer to her right.

"'... The swan swept across the lake, her flight restoring the town and granting the prince and princess their happily-ever-after,'" she recited, her freckled cheeks glowing in appreciation, "'And so, the littlest gesture of kindness, and a dance full of hope had changed the world for the better, forever.'"

Fakir snorted, his eyes remaining closed. "Looks better on paper than how it sounds out loud."

"No way! It sounds amazing! The whole _story_ was amazing!" Giddy, she rolled over onto her back in his direction, the sounds of Uzura's chanting and drumming filling the calm quiet of the glowing field as Lamp fluttered away to join the little girl. "And it's like you never stopped writing at all!"

His eyes snapped open and his cheeks darkened. "... Idiot." Sitting up, he moved away from her, averting his gaze to watch over Uzura, Lamp, and the other lady bugs from a distance.

"I'm not an idiot. And really, it's true! Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're really talented?"

"Aside from you, not really. Not since my parents." His jaw clenched. "I was just a child, though, so I barely remember. If anything, they were probably humoring me."

Ahiru's eyebrows rose a little. He was opening up, and for some reason, she wanted to see more of that. Gently, she tried to encourage him to continue. "Mm … how old were you when they …?"

"... Maybe four. Too much time's gone by. I don't remember everything."

"Wow, you've been writing that long? And I guess Rue wouldn't remember either, huh?"

"She probably doesn't even remember their faces. But I wouldn't know—Rue and I were never that close and never talked about it."

Ahiru took a breath, letting her own eyes fall shut as one of the sun flowers tickled her cheek. "That's hard, huh? Growing up without parents sounds really, really hard."

"Rue had Raven," he mentioned offhandedly.

"O-Oh." That probably explained why Rue followed Raven's orders so easily. "I … I understand, though. It's hard to be without parents. Even if she did have your elder there for her, still …"

Fakir hesitated, green eyes glimmering with something Ahiru couldn't quite identify. "... And you're the last of—your parents passed as well."

"... Mm-hmm. I guess … you knew that already."

"Autor found you to be the last of Drosselmeyer's bloodline. It's easy to guess." His voice grew oddly soft, lacking his usual roughness. "How long ago?"

A dull ache filled her chest at the reminder of her loss. "N-Not long. A few weeks before I met Mytho and … and you kidnapped me."

Come to think of it, she didn't have that long to mourn, especially with all that had happened in the last month. The very idea that she'd been so distracted by _everything_ and buried her grief beneath a puzzling mess of emotions and chaos was strange to her. Lately, she didn't know how to feel.

Losing her parents broke her heart, soothed only by the idea of being with her promised prince, then shattered by her kidnapping, and overshadowed by the daunting destiny that awaited her. Far too much happened all at once, and it was only now that it was all catching up to her.

Perhaps acceptance just _did_ that to people.

She sniffed messily, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"... Sorry I brought it up."

His apology was weak, but she knew it to be earnest. So she laughed a little through her tears. "S-S'okay. It's just—it's a lot. Not just for me. It's a lot for everyone! I just …" If she continued like this, she knew she'd turn into a sobbing little mess. She scrambled to find a positive, a bit of humor, something else to think of other than all of the unfair things in this world. "Hah! Y-You were so mean back then! W-With the throwing into the water a-and then you ripped my dress!"

Her forced laugh turned into a genuine giggle at the heat that filled his cheeks in the steady light of the sun flowers. "That was—the dress was a pain, alright?! Just forget that ever happened like that!" With a scowl, he crossed his arms over his chest. "And _you_ , acting all high and mighty, some stupid rich girl. As if that was any better!"

That was right. She tried so hard to be a proper queen back then. Everything she truly wasn't. Those days felt like an entire lifetime ago. "Yeah, well _you_ started a fire!"

"No one was actually going to get hurt." His blush grew, his ears growing red. "It was all just a diversion, I made sure. Couldn't get that damn prince away from you otherwise."

She sat up, cross-legged beside him. "Hey, don't talk badly about Mytho!"

He fell silent at this, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Hello, did you hear me? You can't talk about him like that! I … I want to marry him," she said quietly, "I … wanted to marry him."

Still, he said nothing, instead giving his full attention to Lamp and Uzura as the little girl spun around in circles among the sun flowers. When he finally turned to stare at Ahiru once again, she couldn't read his expression at all.

"Fakir?"

"... You have a petal in your hair."

"Eh?" She blinked, reaching up into her messy red locks. "I-I do?"

"Yeah, it's—" Fakir trailed off, reaching out to pluck it from her strands. But he stopped before he could, hesitating and instead deciding to point in the general direction. "—there."

"Oh. Oh! Found it! Thanks!"

He snorted, but more out of amusement than annoyance, and then cleared his throat. "Anyway, you finished reading. Shouldn't you be doing more of your 'research'?"

"Mm. About that … I was actually going to ask you for a favor."

"What is it?"

"... I wrote a letter to Mytho—Prince Siegfried," she mumbled, bringing her knees to her chest, "When … when your curse is lifted … would you find him, and give it to him for me?"

Fakir looked stunned. "You—?"

"I've made my decision!" she insisted, straightening in her seated position, "I decided this on my own, just like you decided to write again on your own! I thought about it a lot, and it's not like … it's not like I'm giving up. That's not it at all! I'm not doing it because you all told me to, or because I have no other choice. But I thought that …" Her shoulders wilted a bit. "Well, what would Mytho do? And what else can I do for him, or the world? I … I'd make an awful queen. The only thing I did with all the blessings I was born with was just sit and daydream and this way, I can _help_ people and make a difference, right? This is … for the best."

Wasn't it?

"So," she continued, slow and small, "if you could just give him the letter I wrote … that's all I want."

* * *

This was what they wanted.

Nothing stopped them from breaking their curse now. They would emerge from their prison, finally move forward in time, grow old, live to the fullest, enjoy what they took for granted long ago. And they could do it guiltlessly, and greet freedom with open arms and laughter.

So, why …?

Why did Fakir feel as though he was being ripped apart all over again?

He stared numbly at the folded letter Ahiru entrusted to him.

" _You're the one who's always been honest and truthful from the very beginning! You're my friend, Fakir. I know that if it's you, Mytho will definitely receive my letter!"_

Fakir felt like scum. A wretched, bitter weight, heavier than any blame or punishment he'd ever endured in his pathetic existence, pushed into his chest so sharply, he could hardly breathe.

Ahiru came into his life, fiery, determined, and kind, touching their lives with her smile. She gave him inspiration and strength to overcome the power of transformation and even, he had to admit, self-doubt.

But this was what he wanted. This was what he'd asked for. He was the one to volunteer to risk himself in order to find the last of Drosselmeyer's bloodline. He was the one who willingly snatched Ahiru away from happiness in order to have their own. He was the one who began all of this. He damned her.

Why was he feeling this way? Was this indescribable guilt? Was that all?

Was this even _further_ punishment? Did Drosselmeyer want this, too?

He grit his teeth and gripped his quill, his mind full of thoughts of her. He wrote mindlessly in the silvery ink that she, in her boundless kindness, fashioned just for him, describing the red of her hair, the blues of her eyes, each little freckle that dusted across her nose and the way she laughed and danced freely with the most important people in his horrible life.

_The girl with the brightest spirit and warmest heart stumbled and tripped through life, scattering light across the shadows in the poor man's soul._

He dropped the quill and buried his face in his hands, eyes clenched shut.

… Fakir cared for her. And because of him, she was going to die.

Fate cursed them all.

* * *

Ahiru carried a basket of herbs toward Freya's hut. But as she did so, humming with a skip in her step, she stumbled over her own feet, tripping and scattering the sprigs of rosemary all across the cobblestone ground.

"E-Eh?! Oh no!" She frowned in dismay at the mess, and looked behind her to see what she might've tripped over.

Oddly enough, there was nothing there.


	11. Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An hour earlier, Fakir swiped the paper, the ink, and the quills off his desk, sending the items crashing to the floor in a messy heap. The jar shattered and the silvery liquid splattered across the stone ground.
> 
> With shaking hands and short, heaving breaths, he hurriedly cleaned the mess, determined to leave no evidence of his recent writings for anyone to see. It was still a secret.
> 
> It would stay a secret. He couldn't write anymore. Nothing but destruction came out of an ability like this. He thought it might've been safe to write just because he wanted to, but it was back.
> 
> This was impossible.
> 
> He paced back and forth, the 'how's' and the 'why's' escaping him. He ran his fingers roughly through his dark hair, tugging at the strands anxiously, resentful of the itch he felt in his right hand. After a while of this, he finally sat down on his cot, glaring with wild eyes at the blanket in the corner that wrapped around the pages, quills and ink stains, hidden from plain sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! All comments and constructive criticism are super-appreciated! Let me know what you think! I'm actually really excited about this chapter, so any feedback would be lovely. :3 All of the support so far has been amazing, and thank you all for such wonderful and detailed comments. I just ... can't express how much they warm my heart.
> 
> So, this chapter is dedicated to you guys, my readers. All my love!

Like she did every day for the past week or so, Ahiru sat on Fakir's bed while he wrote. He'd grown used to her presence—even found comfort in it—and he needed to come to terms with the idea of her being gone.

It would be easier if he kept his distance, but …

"Eh?" he heard her say to Uzura, "You don't know what an ocean is?"

Fakir glanced over his shoulder, taking a break from his current project. The two girls sat cross-legged on his thin cot while Lamp perched daintily on the shelf above them. Ahiru balanced a bowl of potato stew in her hands and slurped noisily—a far cry from the mask of nobility she once wore when he first found her in that castle town, more comfortable, at ease, secure, free.

Uzura shook her head, tracing the tip of her drumstick against the drum on her lap.

"W-Well, it's … uhhh ..." Ahiru placed the bowl in her lap, brought a finger to her chin in thought, and tried to find the right words. "They're big, big, _big_ pools of water! It's salty with a lot of fish, and it's very deep—even deeper than this place!"

The corners of Fakir's lips turned upward while Uzura's eyes widened in innocent amazement. "Ohhhhhh!"

"And," Ahiru continued, pausing to chew on a potato, her own expression brightening at the memory of her home, "you can even ride on the waves! The surface! With big boats that float! And catch fish to eat!"

"Like Fakir used to do-zura! Can I go see it-zura?"

"Yeah!" There was a moment just then, when Ahiru's shoulders slumped just a little, and Fakir only saw it because he was looking for it. "I mean, I'm sure you can—ah, Fakir?"

His fist clenched when she addressed him. "What."

"Would you take her to see it? You can go to my old home!" That faraway look in her eye grew more and more familiar to him. It was that expression she wore whenever she thought of the things she'd never see again, appearing more frequently now. And it tugged painfully at his heart every time he saw it. "Where I'm from, the waves roll right up onto the sand, and the breeze is really clean and salty, and there are lots of birds. And clear skies."

"Skies-zura!"

"Yeah, skies! So … Fakir, can you take her to see it?"

He snorted, trying to push down the strange stirrings in his chest that threatened to spill out. "First the letter, now the ocean. What, you have a list?"

She only laughed, and his cheeks warmed. "Maybe! So, will you?"

Turning back around in an attempt to keep her from witnessing his crumbling composure, he picked up his quill and replied, "... Yeah. Go ahead and write down everything you want done."

Uzura leaped from the bed and twirled, drumming incessantly with a sudden burst of energy. "Gonna see the skies-zura! Gonna see the oceans-zura!" She danced her way out the door, her small frame bouncing excitedly as she left Fakir's hut. Lamp fluttered after, the room dimming as she took her natural glow with her.

The cot creaked as Ahiru likewise stood, which relieved him somewhat—he wanted to be alone so he could punch something.

Instead, he felt her touch upon the back of his left hand, her fingers patting his skin. "Um! Thank you! For being so nice to me and being kind like this."

 _This is being kind?_ A bitter taste filled his mouth.

"Since the beginning, you've only done what you thought was best! And that's really admirable. So no matter what they all say, I want you to know that you're really great, just as you are!"

Her warmth seemed to seep into his skin.

His cheeks reddened from both shame and something else he couldn't place.

He watched her leave, a skip in her step regardless of whatever was on her mind—over the past month, he'd gotten to know her well, and the changes were evident only to him. The slump of her shoulders, the trepidation in her smile, the way her eyes clouded over when she remembered that she only had twenty-one days left …

Fakir's jaw clenched and he reached for his quill, his expression falling.

When did _she_ become such a big part of his miserable life? It'd only been a month and already he'd—

—She was so haughty when they first met. True to her noble blood, she held her chin up and used her title against him, and he thought that was who she was.

But Ahiru was just a girl. A clumsy, stubborn, optimistic, and perpetually kind girl. She stayed when she had a chance to escape, she endeared herself to the best of them, and … Uzura _adored_ her.

She was the one who believed in him. Three hundred years, and the one who encouraged him the most was Drosselmeyer's descendant after a single month of being in her company.

After the curse was lifted, she wouldn't exist anymore. He would live out the rest of his life knowing that it was only because she had given up hers. Willingly.

For Uzura, for Rue, and for his people, Fakir had to accept this.

If he was the only one cursed, if _he_ was the only one to disappear, then he'd gladly—

Those were dangerous thoughts. Determined to endure, he picked up his quill, his left hand still warm from her barest touch.

… The air shifted. The universe held its breath.

And he froze, his heart dropping into the pit of his stomach with the sensation he hadn't experienced in almost three centuries.

The quill felt heavy in his fingers.

* * *

Karon sat across from Mr. Cecil Katz in the drawing room, the two sipping tea while they awaited Prince Siegfried. According to Raetsel, the prince still wore his nightclothes when she entered his bed chambers this morning, shortly before his uncle's arrival.

Her demeanor alarmed him greatly, as did her report of what transpired between herself and Siegfried. It made no sense. It was out of character. But when Raetsel calmed down, she insisted that everything she said was true.

To be frank, Karon and Lysander believed her. Their prince had undergone swift and drastic changes lately.

It wasn't a question as to _if_ the prince truly demanded Raetsel's heart—it was a question as to _why_.

Karon's jaw clenched when his thoughts drifted to the lost duchess of Hedeby. Sweet-natured, kind, and dainty Lady Ahiru, still alone, out in the world, likely already dead. He thought awful things, he knew, but what other conclusion could there be? Their scouts found _nothing_. Not even the bandits who ambushed them before.

He had the advisors draft a letter to be sent to Lady Ahiru's cousin, the current Duke of Hedeby, detailing the their lack of results and a possible end to the search ...

"Your spirits seem heavy, _nyah_?"

"Ah, pardon my lack of attentiveness, Mr. Katz."

"Not at all. With the news you've sent me, I understand you must have quite a bit on your mind." The poised man toyed with the end of his mustache. "All seems grim in the kingdom."

Karon's shoulders slumped just a bit as he regarded the prince's uncle thoughtfully. His dark hair greyed somewhat over the years, but his yellow eyes, slightly matching the prince's gold irises, were sharp as they ever were. He held himself with catlike grace, elegance and dignity, even as he sipped lightly at the black tea in his cup, and there was something in his air and manner that exuded a warm authority. A true teacher, scholar, and philosopher.

Mr. Katz's whiskers shifted with the movement of his lips and his eyes twinkled as he continued, "And that my nephew's fiancee is gone and there cannot be a wedding— _nyah_!"

Karon coughed. Then again, there was _that_ little quirk about him. "I-Indeed. We've done what we can, but it has been nearly a month now since Lady Ahiru's disappearance."

"For Mytho to remain unmarried and alone as I have been …!" Mr. Katz's eyebrow twitched, but he sought composure and cleared his throat, straightening himself. "I cannot imagine the weight he bears in his heart."

"Heart …" Karon put the teacup and saucer down onto the table between them. "Today, I must confide to you that His Highness behaved badly toward our housekeeper this morning."

"Miss Raetsel? Mytho behaved badly to _Miss Raetsel_?"

"Yes. Alarmingly so, in fact."

"Tell me."

Karon took a preparatory breath. "He frightened her. He asked her if she loved him as more than a prince, and asked her for her heart." He shook his head, in disbelief just by _saying_ these things.

Mr. Katz likewise put his cup down and rubbed his chin in thought, concern flooding the scholar's yellow eyes. "And Mytho has never shown any special regard toward Miss Raetsel at all?"

"No, never. Not once. He openly proclaimed his affection only for Lady Ahiru."

Before Mr. Katz could respond, the doors to the drawing room opened, one of the the servants escorting and presenting the prince. The two men immediately rose to their feet and bowed as Siegfried swept into the room.

Karon was stricken by the pinkness in his prince's eyes. Had he been lacking sleep?

It seemed that Mr. Katz noticed as well. "Mytho?"

Clarity washed over the prince for a moment, his pink eyes returning to their natural, golden hue when he recognized his visitor. "... Uncle?"

"... Yes," Mr. Katz replied after some hesitation. Then, he smiled warmly and approached, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual poise. "We thought it would be a nice surprise."

"It is." Siegfried stepped forward to embrace him. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course. How have you been faring? I've heard of your troubles lately. You must be—"

"Oh, I'm quite alright." When he pulled back, Siegfried smiled, gentle and kind, but his eyes took on that bloodshot pinkness once again. "It's becoming easier to handle. Have you come to see the progress my knights have made?"

Mr. Katz stroked his mustache idly. "No, just a simple visit, I suppose."

"Your Highness," Karon interjected, "perhaps it would be beneficial to take the day off. Your uncle has traveled quite the distance to see you."

"How kind of him, to be sure." Siegfried sat in front of the table and reached for a finger sandwich. "Then, leave us be, Karon. We have much to catch up on!"

Karon looked visibly stunned with Siegfried's apparent good mood. Perhaps Mr. Katz's presence truly did have a positive effect on him. One could only hope. "I-Yes, yes, of course. Take your time, then." With a bow and a nod, he gestured to the other servants to join him in his departure, confident that there were enough finger sandwiches, tea, and punch to sustain them.

He took the next couple of hours to tend to the estate and oversee Lysander's plans of attack. "We want to think defensively," the general said to him, "The Rungholtan army overcomes our own by numbers alone. It's as if they'd been _prepared_ for war all this time."

Karon shook his head. "I'm beginning to think that they were."

The more they thought about it, the more they began to wonder if the impromptu visitations by Prince Femio and his company truly were for peace talks … or if they were after something else entirely.

He checked on Raetsel. As expected, she stayed busy with the rest of the staff, drowning herself in work. "One mustn't grumble," she sing-songed with a smile, but he didn't miss the weariness in her eyes, "We can only move forward. And there's an entire Grand Chateau to run!"

Times like these reminded Karon that Raetsel was stronger than all of them.

He trudged through the halls with the reports in his hands, a headache blooming in his skull at the sight of the treasury and recent expenditures. They were ultimately fine, but this is the most they've spent in the past couple of decades and it was hard to see.

Karon paused in his step when he approached the courtyard where the knights trained, and he found Prince Siegfried among them, his practice sword slicing through the air with a brutality that was utterly unlike him. Off to the side, Mr. Katz watched thoughtfully. With a polite bow, Karon stepped forward to stand beside him, wincing as Siegfried swiped under Demetri's feet and sent the poor, young knight to the dirt.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Karon."

"To you as well, Mr. Katz. How was tea time with the prince?"

"This isn't our prince."

Karon stiffened, blood running cold. "I—pardon?"

Despite Mr. Katz's evident composure, his yellow eyes were sharp and critical as they watched Siegfried continue to spar. "Though it is certainly my nephew in the physical sense, I'm afraid he is lost."

"I don't understand—"

"I need to know everything that has transpired. Every last detail, every unusual event from the moment of Lady Ahiru's kidnapping and onward. There is foul play here, and I intend to seek it out."

* * *

An hour earlier, Fakir swiped the paper, the ink, and the quills off his desk, sending the items crashing to the floor in a messy heap. The jar shattered and the silvery liquid splattered across the stone ground.

With shaking hands and short, heaving breaths, he hurriedly cleaned the mess, determined to leave no evidence of his recent writings for anyone to see. It was still a secret.

It would _stay_ a secret. He couldn't write anymore. Nothing but destruction came out of an ability like this. He thought it might've been safe to write just because he wanted to, but it was _back_.

This was _impossible_.

He paced back and forth, the 'how's' and the 'why's' escaping him. He ran his fingers roughly through his dark hair, tugging at the strands anxiously, resentful of the itch he felt in his right hand. After a while of this, he finally sat down on his cot, glaring with wild eyes at the blanket in the corner that wrapped around the pages, quills and ink stains, hidden from plain sight.

"What happened to _you_?"

Fakir's stare snapped to his doorway where Autor leaned against the wall, his eyes cool behind his glasses. They still haven't spoken, not since Fakir initiated Autor's destructive transformation weeks back.

That was fine—even now, Fakir wanted to punch him in the nose all over again just for bothering him. "What do you want?" he growled between clenched teeth.

"Raven's holding an assembly," Autor replied, casually pushing the spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "You're cordially invited."

His eye twitched, but he stood, trying to bury away any semblance of panic and anxiety. "Where's Rue?"

"With the sacrifice, down in the fields. Rue was sent to distract her—this assembly isn't for the girl's ears."

Fakir bristled. _The sacrifice. Right. That's all she is to everyone. That's all she's supposed to be._ "Then it's about her."

"Not really. It's about—ugh, why don't you just come outside and greet the day? The entire town is gathering."

Greet the day? Underground, how could there possibly be a day to greet? Still, Fakir grit his teeth and stepped out after Autor, making his way to the town square. All around him, the other villagers hurried away from their huts and chores as Raven took his place in the center beneath a lamppost where everyone could see him. Autor walked up to stand beside him with his arms crossed and looking smug. As expected, Rue was absent, probably occupying Ahiru with more of those ballet lessons.

After a few minutes of waiting, Raven was satisfied that the Wyvern people finally gathered around to hear him. They tittered quietly amongst themselves, brimming with energy as they were wont to be lately—after all, freedom was a mere three weeks away. It was as good as theirs.

Raven lifted a hand, and a hush swept over the crowd. When he spoke, his voice reverberated clearly, the villagers hanging off his every word. He looked particularly pleased. "We have all been counting down. Twenty-one days. Three weeks until the blessed constellation is aligned. Three weeks until our sacrifice is made, and we may breathe in fresh air, and greet the world with open arms." He paused to smile at the hum of approval from his audience. "... But … will it be enough?"

The villagers went silent.

"Autor has seen into the history of the world. Disease. Crime. War. Death. Those are what await us when we emerge. We will leave our underground prison, and enter into a battlefield."

He kept on, overcoming the growing murmurs and squashing them down with the authority in his voice. "But, with the evils of the world, hope always follows. Autor has found a way for us to enter into this new realm with our heads held high, as paragons of peace and bringers of protection!"

At this, Fakir's eyebrows furrowed, and his hand itched again.

"We can never be as we once were—hiding behind the treacherous hills and dark forests surrounding a quiet, little village. No, not after three centuries of isolation. Not after three centuries of wisdom."

Wisdom? Fakir inwardly scoffed. No one grew at all these three hundred years. They were _frozen_ , unable to move forward in any way. Uzura was still _five_. They had no more wisdom now than they did back then. The only thing that grew over three centuries was bitterness.

"No. We need to show the world that there is more to it than war. And we can.

"We have come across a way to become _true_ dragons."

Fakir's mouth went dry as the crowd exclaimed in astonishment.

Once again, Raven's voice hushed them, his eyes gleaming with pride. "We are a people brimming with the potential of Fae and Dragon alike. Their blood runs through our veins. This curse that has befallen us—we may turn it into a blessing!"

Autor stepped forward when the villagers began to shout out muffled questions. "Settle down, settle down! It's a simple spell that we're fully capable of enacting once our curse is lifted! We tap into our Draconic blood latent within our bodies, and change into true dragons. Transformations completely under our control, maintaining our current abilities—anything we can do now, without the threat of vanishing in a flash of light in the end."

"We may walk upon the world and protect it beneath our wings," Raven proclaimed, taking a step forward, "Think of all we've gone through. Think of Edel's final words to us. In twenty-one days, we will have freedom, and with it, we shall free the world."

Looking around, Fakir was stunned to find the others smiling, some hooting with enthusiasm. Even Hermia, Freya, and Malen seemed pleased by Raven's words.

"We can take care of the world!" some said. Others murmured excitedly, "We can turn our misfortunes into something _good_!"

"Indeed," declared the elder, bowing his head humbly, "Now then, we will prepare, but for tonight, we celebrate! Music, dancing!"

With a great cheer, the villagers collectively bustled about to wheel out the instruments and food, not unlike the way they had when they celebrated Ahiru's arrival in Wyvern one month ago.

But Fakir remained frozen where he was for a long moment, his hand fiercely itchy with the urge to pick up his discarded quills.

Edel's final words …

_When I bear fruit again, the world will be yours once more._

But was _this_ what she truly meant?

Their dragon forms were unnatural. To change into _true_ dragons, mythical beings with wild hearts and fiery breaths … Wasn't that against what they wanted in the first place? Didn't they just want to live out their lives peacefully? Edel wanted that for them—for Uzura.

Why was it suddenly their responsibility to protect the world? When did Elder Raven aspire for something like _that_?

Fakir's planned to eventually leave Wyvern altogether when the curse was lifted. He had no interest in staying a dragon, or being some kind of hero to the world. He wanted no part in this. Especially if he was to protect a world that didn't have _Ahiru_ in it. That … just didn't seem fair.

His jaw clenched as he bitterly watched the villagers set up for their celebration, Autor wheeling out his piano and Hermia and Freya taking to the center of the square to dance. It was only when he heard the familiar tap-tap of Uzura's drum and Ahiru's excited laughter that he looked up. Rue, Ahiru, and Uzura approached from the ladder that led down to the lower ground, the little girl scampering over to Freya's basket of fruit a small distance away. Rue walked slowly to him, her expression unreadable, but he didn't really pay much attention to that in light of the brightness in Ahiru's eyes while she skipped to his side.

"Fakir! Is everyone having a party again?" Her grin widened, her nose crinkling. "Maybe this time I can actually join in! But my feet kind of hurt from dance practice …"

"I'm sure you can handle it," Rue reassured her, her own smile small and almost weak, "Besides, haven't you taken on the task of watching Uzura?"

"Yeah! Ah, she's so fast! Okay, I have to catch up!" She waved to the two siblings before setting off, greeting the other villagers as she did so.

Rue's forced expression finally crumbled. "You know," she muttered, "I will mourn for her when the time comes."

The thought made him sick. He couldn't even bring himself to reply.

"... So. What do you think of Elder Raven's plan?" A tiny smile touched her lips despite her sadness. "It does sound wonderful, doesn't it? I think Elder Edel would've wanted it—to use our experiences and our pain to change everything and make the world better. Oh, the things that have transpired up there in our absence ..."

"Didn't seem so rough up there to me," Fakir countered, recalling the state of that castle town from which he'd taken Ahiru. The prince seemed kind and just, and the people were utterly happy. _Ahiru_ was utterly happy beside him, on that bridge right before Fakir set that building aflame.

She pretended to be so prim and proper. But he knew what she was truly like, who she truly was. And he thought she was infinitely better than the ladylike facade she tried to wear at the very beginning.

Why she felt like she had to hide anything, he'd never understand. She should've always been free to be herself.

Ahiru didn't even have the time to live her life to the fullest.

"You can't have seen the entire history of the world just from your brief visits, you know," Rue said with a huff, breaking him out of his reverie, "Trust in Elder Raven. I believe that we can make a good change under his guidance."

"I'm not interested."

"Well, why _not_?"

"That isn't what I wanted, and I don't think that's what Edel wanted either."

She look positively affronted. "You always do this—this is why you're constantly pushed out, Fakir. This is why you are always on the outside."

He scowled. "And you _aren't_?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I at least have Elder Raven—I at least have someone to trust, and someone who cares about me. I was always alone, yes, especially after Giselle left, because I couldn't possibly rely on my _brother_ who was always too busy feeling sorry for himself."

There was nothing he could say to that. He could only clench his fists and bitterly look away.

She wasn't wrong.

He heard her stomp off, likely joining Hermia and Freya in a dance to cool her nerves and enjoy the music (much to Autor's delight, Fakir was sure), and he didn't follow. His mind was abuzz with the overload of information and stress—Raven's announcement, his own writing, Ahiru's eventual sacrifice—and it annoyed him to an irrational extent that no one else seemed to want to question Raven's oh-so-glorious plan.

Ultimately, it had nothing to do with him.

He didn't realize he'd just been standing there among the partying villagers, staring at the ground with a glare on his face until Ahiru suddenly appeared beside him. "Uzura's busy playing with the band," she explained, her expression soft, "so I thought I'd come over and say hi. Are you doing okay?"

The lines above his brow softened. "... I'm fine."

Ahiru gave him a cute pout. "Doesn't look like it! Everyone's having a party for some reason and you're just kind of … here."

He felt a blush coming on (and damn it, that sensation was growing more and more frequent lately) and he crossed his arms over his chest. "So go on and join them."

"Well, I'd rather join them _with_ you!"

"Don't be stubborn."

" _You_ don't be stubborn!" She laughed, heartily and fully, like she wasn't going to die in twenty-one days. "Well, okay, I won't force you or anything. But dancing is really fun! Did you know that I know the waltz?"

His bad mood dissipated just a bit. "Knowing your background, you should."

"Mhm! Ah … well, I'm not great at it, but I do know it."

He expected that. The corner of his lip quirked up, giving her an imperceptibly fond look. "That sounds about right."

"Eh?! What's that supposed to mean?!"

At this, he chuckled—and that should've been the stupidest thing to find funny. In light of everything that happened that day, there was just something about being around her that made things better. Easier.

But his smile fell when he saw her astonishment, her eyes wide. "What?"

"... Nothing!" she squeaked, shaking her head.

"Idiot."

"I'm not an idiot."

Feeling inexplicably lighter, he nodded in the direction of the dancers and musicians. "Go on, then. I have something to do, so … I'll see you afterward."

Her expression brightened in an instant. "Alright! See you in a bit! And don't take too long!" With that, she spun on her heel and trotted toward Malen, the artist sitting on a nearby stool and sketching out the festivities.

Fakir wasn't lying. He did have something to do. Though Rue soured his mood, Ahiru soothed it, and even rejuvenated him.

He needed to speak with Raven, and it didn't escape Fakir's notice that the village elder was mysteriously absent. In fact, when he glanced over, Autor was missing, too, leaving the piano vacant and untouched. Strange. Whenever Rue danced, Autor always made himself present.

But Raven needed to know that Fakir would have no part in this spell—or anything to do with Wyvern after Ahiru's death. And he wanted to make certain that Raven would protect Rue and Uzura, no matter what delusional visions he had for Wyvern's future.

It hardly mattered. He left the celebration and made a beeline for Raven's home, the music and laughter growing more muffled as he strode between the stone buildings. No one stopped him from leaving as Rue began to dance, enrapturing all present. Fakir didn't stay to watch.

When he arrived, he marched right in, uncaring of whether or not he was welcome. Raven leaned against the opposite wall while Autor pored over a document of some sort—likely a piece of historical writing he'd done at Raven's behest. "Why, Fakir, you aren't joining in on the festivities?" The elder grinned. "Oh, but I suppose that isn't your idea of entertainment."

"True dragons?" Fakir disregarded the smalltalk. "Even if it were possible, is that really—?"

Autor snorted, leaning back from his scroll and pulling off his glasses to polish them. "As always, Fakir, you've got _something_ to complain about. It is possible. I've found the spell myself, and we are more than capable of making it happen."

"... Fine. Either way, I'm not going to be a part of it."

The other two men each kept a steady gaze on him, waiting for him to continue.

"I'm leaving after this is all over. So what you do when the curse is lifted is all up to you—except for Rue and Uzura. You have these 'plans,' and you're involving them as well?"

Raven chuckled, his eyes downcast. "Rue seems quite taken with our plans, and Uzura will be well-protected. I would never let Elder Edel's daughter be harmed—you should know that."

Fakir visibly bristled. "I'm wondering if we even know what Elder Edel wanted for us. I don't think it's this."

Just then, Autor dropped his gaze and Raven's eyes darkened. He pushed himself off the wall, eyes narrowing, sharp and red. " _I_ was Elder Edel's student. I knew her better than anyone in Wyvern. Remember this, Fakir." His words grew venomous, shedding the veil of soft cordiality it used to bear. "You can leave, boy. You can go off on your own—it wouldn't make much of a difference to us. You were always nothing but a detriment, anyway. The _cause_ of all of this."

Fakir's jaw clenched.

"But if you leave, you will not be with us. You will be against us."

_Against …?_

"Drosselmeyer took our happiness from us. You recall. After all, you almost died that night, Fakir. And I remember the blinding light from our dear Elder Edel, and as her life seeped away, leaving her an empty husk of an oak, that life was transferred to _you_. Now, you can accept fate, join us, rule the _world_ with us. Take back what was stolen. Show them all what powerful beings have been hiding for centuries on end. And in that way, you can atone for your sins.

"... Or you cannot."

Fakir's mouth went dry.

It wasn't a responsibility to protect the world. Raven wanted to remain dragons to rule over it. For _revenge_. And like fools, they all were ready to just accept that?

Confidently, Raven continued, seemingly pleased with the sight of the color draining from Fakir's face. "You can try to convince the others to see things your way. But you remember how Rue's dance can be so effective in influencing them! She is quite a sight."

That _despicable_ —!

"Give in, Fakir. If you do this you can finally be redeemed for damning all of your friends and family. This is your moment."

Fakir finally found his voice. "This _isn't_ what Elder Edel wanted!" He whipped around, glowering at Autor accusingly. "You know for a fact that this isn't—!"

Autor sighed and just shook his head. "Fakir, just … _stop_. After everything, after three hundred years, don't you think we deserve something in return?! Some bit of vindication for all we've had to live through? Drosselmeyer's betrayal! All the people we lost …!"

"I didn't want to do this to you, Fakir," Raven said, straightening up. He pulled a bundle of rope from the table in front of Autor and held it out to him. "But it appears that it must be you. Take this, and bind the sacrifice, good and tight. For the rest of this month, we'll have to keep her isolated and imprisoned away from the others. We'll keep her confined to her hut, keep her under strict guard."

There was no stifling the absolute fury that burst behind Fakir's ribs at Raven's words. Bursts of small embers escaped Fakir's breath as he slapped the rope out of Raven's grip. "Tie her _up_?! She's harmless! She's been here all damn month and has done nothing but accept everything, and I _won't_ —!"

"You must've fallen under her spell, too." Raven clicked his tongue, only serving to infuriate Fakir further. "She is Drosselmeyer's descendant and cannot be trusted. Some of the others have even begun to feel a bit of affection for her, including yourself, apparently. It's all going according to that girl's plan."

" _She's not like that!_ "

Right before Fakir could grab at Raven's collar, he heard his sister's voice behind him.

"Fakir, I'm sorry for this."

Before he knew it, Autor and Raven had him by the arms, forcing him to turn around and look upon his sister as she lifted to her toes, her arms forming a graceful arc above her head, her crimson eyes mournful.

And as she danced, he could hear Raven chuckling beside into his ear. "Her dance is beautiful, Fakir. Let it sway you."

Slowly, Fakir's muscles relaxed, and his eyes dulled.

* * *

Disappointed, Ahiru went back to her hut that night without meeting up with Fakir. He just vanished, but he must've had a lot to do when there were only three weeks left until—well, _that_.

She hoped that he'd dance with Uzura and herself, but he didn't seem the type to want to try that sort of thing. Honestly, she couldn't place why she felt so down at the end of the day.

The celebration served to be a good distraction, if anything. After Rue danced, the entire village seemed so agreeable, and so happy. And Ahiru was happy for them. Really.

She prepared for bed, washing up with the provided basin and pulling her long locks into a tight braid like Rue taught her to do. Lamp took her place in a little basket next to her cot. It was late—she'd gotten so accustomed to day and night underground that she knew she was usually in bed long before now.

Her feet ached from all the dancing, so she pulled her knees up to her chest and began to massage her toes.

Twenty-one days …

If Fakir never kidnapped her, would she be married to Mytho by now? All pampered and queenly, eating as much as she wanted, dancing with Mytho in his grand ballrooms, becoming his dedicated and loving wife …

It seemed like so long ago that she dreamed of those things. She felt like an entirely different person now. Would her mother be proud? Would Mytho?

She stretched with a vocal yawn and rested her head on her pillow. "G'night, Lamp!" The lady bug flickered in reply as Ahiru let her eyes fall shut.

But she didn't sleep. Not when she heard the footsteps against the cobblestone, and the shift of the fabric covering her doorway. Her eyes snapped open and she blinked at the tall silhouette.

"... Mm? Fakir?" She smiled and sat up. "Hey! Where were you? I thought you wanted to meet up after—"

She couldn't even finish her sentence. He crossed the room and gripped her arms, tight and demanding, so like the way he handled her when he first swept her away from Vineta a whole month ago. He had rope in his hand.

"Fakir?"

His eyes were sharp and focused, analyzing her with a critical eye. The rest of his features were utterly neutral, and she didn't know what to make of it. "A-Are you okay?"

She waited, holding her breath as he remained motionless for a long moment. Then, inexplicably, he looked over his shoulder at her doorway.

When he turned back to her, those green irises swam with some strange emotion she'd never seen in them before—brimming with trepidation and … resolve.

His voice was a harsh whisper. "Do you trust me?"

"I—" Her jaw fell slack. What did he mean by asking that?

But she knew her answer—she didn't even have to think about it. Never once was he dishonest, and behind the grumpy frown and the piercing glare, he was truly kind. Kinder than anyone.

Her kidnapper became her best friend.

"... Yes, I trust you! What's going on?"

"Come on, hurry."

He stood up, left the rope on her bed, and gestured to the now-awake lady bug to dim her light. Lamp obediently did so, tilting her head in confusion as she fluttered down to sit upon Ahiru's shoulder.

Ahiru jumped instantly to her feet, tucking them into her slippers. "Fakir?"

"Let's go! Keep quiet!"

She bit her lip and followed him, keeping her steps as light as she could manage without tripping over herself. He led her to the ladder leading up to upper ground, ushering her to follow quickly.

The town was quiet, dark, and stagnant, and climbing up like this in the dead of night reminded her of her first arrival, falling onto the dragon who currently led her to who-knew-where. But he was quick and he didn't let her stop to reflect.

_What was going on?_

He kept a quick pace, darting between buildings with him constantly aware of where she was at all times. She promised she'd trust him, so she didn't question any of it, but she didn't bother to hide the confusion or concern in her eyes either.

Finally, they came upon a particular hut—Uzura's. He took a few short glances around, before ducking inside. She waited, her heart racing for no apparent reason.

When he emerged, he had a snoozing Uzura curled up against him, her head on his shoulder. "Let's go," he breathed sharply. And once again, Ahiru trailed right on his heels.

That was when she realized it. He was leading her to the only entrance. The only exit.

The sealed doorway.

It was only when he reached out to press his hand against the stone slab did she find her voice, her heart in her throat. "F-Fakir, wait! Where are we going?!" she whispered frantically, glancing around to see if anyone was awake.

"We're leaving—I'm taking you back to your prince. Now hurry and—"

"I—!" She couldn't think straight. Everything was happening so fast! "Wait, wait, but my promise, and-and-and-and the curse and all of the villagers and-and Uzura and _Rue_ —!"

"Rue made her decision!" Fakir hissed back, impatience dripping from his every word. "She tried to—I don't know why it didn't work on me, but this our one chance and we have to take it!"

"Fa-Fakir—!"

"I only needed _one more reason_ to save you and Raven gave it to me!"

She fell silent, her mouth hanging open.

Fakir shook his head, as if trying to calm himself down. "Look. I don't know what's right—I don't know if I ever have, but I know what I have to _do_. Nothing good comes from your death, Ahiru. We'll figure it out, but the most important thing is—the only thing I need to do is make sure your prince can protect you. From there, I'll—" he trailed off, glancing down at his right hand while he cradled Uzura with his left, "—I'll do what I have to. Lure them off somehow. They'll come looking, but …"

"But … I already—twenty-one days and you'll all disappear, and Uzura—!"

"Idiot. You alone, and nobody else, could accept your fate while smiling." He gave her a wry smirk. "So you _can't_ die."

This was too much. Her heart was going to burst right through her chest.

Fakir thrust his free hand out in her direction, pleading with his eyes for her to take it. "I _will_ change this fate!"

This entire month, she'd been given nothing but time to think. To consider. To wonder and wish and hope and accept.

And now, she was given merely a moment, the barest breath of an instant, to defy the destiny designed for her. For all of them.

Instinctively, Ahiru reached for her pendant for strength.

But she took Fakir's hand instead.

In a flurry of action that she barely registered herself, he opened the stone doorway, allowed Lamp to flutter ahead and light their way up the tunnel, and together with Uzura, they ascended hand-in-hand.

The door shut with finality behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You alone, and nobody else, could accept your fate so smilingly. So you can't vanish. I will change this fate!" — Fakir, Princess Tutu: Episode 13


	12. Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the same, towering monster that kidnapped her all those weeks ago: obsidian scales still glinted menacingly; horns and spines still sprouted painfully from his head and back; green and yellow eyes still bore down into her own; the long, heavy tail still swung in large arcs behind him; massive, leathery wings still stretched and flexed, casting dark shadows across the ground; and with the dragon's every breath, hot air blew past her, some smoke emitting from his nostrils.
> 
> Yet, he wasn't the same monster, either. While he terrified her to the core upon their first meeting, she understood the intensity of his gaze now, and knew that when his wings stretched above her, it was an act of security. Of safety and protection.
> 
> He lowered his head, his neck craning down so Ahiru could reach him. She placed a hand on his scaly snout, balancing Uzura against her with one arm. "Fakir …?" Was he sure about this?
> 
> As if he knew what she silently asked, he answered by reaching out with one, large set of claws, inviting her to climb on. He was sure. It showed in the sudden softness in his green eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm overwhelmed, honored, and humbled by all the kind comments, you guys! They mean more than the world to me, and I hope that you enjoy this next chapter! As always, all comments and criticism are welcome and appreciated!

Ahiru had a list of final wishes—a few things she wanted to be done after she passed on. Maybe she was too young to have a will, but she had unique circumstances, and Fakir told her to write down all of her last requests. She thought it to be a nice idea.

The paper sat on her table back in Wyvern, unassuming and plain. Her handwriting had always been on the messier side, so the lettering could hardly be called graceful or neat. In addition, she didn't even _finish_ the list, having only written two of her wishes before Rue ushered her out to practice more ballet. But her wishes were earnest and simple: give Mytho her letter, take Uzura to the beach, visit her parents' graves, feed the ducks in her pond …

… Things she thought she would never get a chance to do. Wishes that she entrusted to Fakir.

And she spent so long down in the darkness, wondering, considering, and accepting. Freeing a whole community of people who deserved to see the sun, allowing Mytho to find someone else to be a better queen and wife, and seeing her parents again … It wasn't a fate she wanted for herself, but it was a fate that would be better for everyone. This was what she could do for the world. She wasn't good for anything else.

So she didn't deserve this gift.

Ahiru let her eyes fall shut, the clean, cool wind tousling her bangs and caressing her freckled cheeks. The early morning sunshine warmed her skin and her heart, and all of the overwhelming fear and sadness that bubbled and built up inside of her over the past month threatened to spill out as tears from her eyes, pushed out by a swelling gratefulness that she shouldn't have.

It dawned on her that, just a few hours ago, she accepted that she would never feel the sun on her skin ever again. Her eyes stung, her chest hurt, and she hated herself for feeling so free, so happy, so _thankful_ in this moment.

This moment wasn't supposed to be for her. It was supposed to be for Wyvern.

"The _sky_ -zura! We're up in the _sky_ -zura!"

At this, the tears did fall, tumbling down silently, and she could no longer hold back. She smiled exuberantly despite the sobs threatening to wrack her form. At least this moment belonged to Uzura, too.

Up until then, Ahiru couldn't even begin to register all that happened in a single evening. The night before, Fakir led her up the long tunnel, her legs burning from the trek. Neither said a word, too out of breath as they were. Before long, they reached the white roots of the oak tree above.

The roots spread smoothly, opening the way like a curtain pushed from a window. The twinkling stars welcomed Ahiru, the pearly glow of the grass and the white oak wood framing the outside world. Unlike the stagnant air beneath, the breeze swept through and around her in a cool embrace, and she shivered from the sensation.

Fakir, his hand still securely around hers, helped her step onto the surface and keep her balance while Lamp fluttered curiously ahead of them to take in their new surroundings. Ahiru took a moment to gaze up at the leafless tree as the gaping hole that led down to Wyvern closed up behind them.

Edel. All this time, she'd been _here_. Though Ahiru had seen the white tree before, this was the first time she felt like she was truly _meeting_ her. She turned her gaze to Uzura, who still slept on Fakir's shoulder.

"Here," he suddenly said, taking a couple steps forward, "hold her. Hurry."

She picked up on the sense of urgency in his voice, suddenly reminded that they didn't have much time. Without protest (as she hardly could tell if this was even _real_ ), she took Uzura into her arms, letting the little girl rest her head down on her own shoulder. Fakir strode a few paces away to give himself room.

Then, he paused and turned to look over his shoulder. "... Don't look, alright?! I don't have any spare clothes." With a grumble and a blush, he made to lift his tattered shirt over his head.

"Eh? _Oh!_ " Her eyes caught sight of the scars marring his toned chest before she whirled around to give him privacy, her face glowing red.

Right. He needed to transform, and he didn't have any extra clothes to wear when they arrived in Vineta. He must not have planned ahead.

… Fakir didn't really have a plan at all, did he? He just _acted_ for some reason that she couldn't possibly fathom. And she acted with him.

What made him suddenly change his mind about everything?

Her hold around Uzura tightened and Lamp fluttered over to press her tiny hand against Ahiru's cheek to comfort her.

Then, the roars came. She heard the rustle of cloth, the shift of something heavy against the grass, and when the cracking of bone and ripping of flesh echoed across the valley, she grimaced and closed her eyes, hoping with every ounce of herself that Fakir's transformation would be swift and his pain brief.

Before long, all was still, and then she felt a breeze of hot air from behind her. She looked over her shoulder, her lips parting when she saw him.

This was the same, towering monster that kidnapped her all those weeks ago: obsidian scales still glinted menacingly; horns and spines still sprouted painfully from his head and back; green and yellow eyes still bore down into her own; the long, heavy tail still swung in large arcs behind him; massive, leathery wings still stretched and flexed, casting dark shadows across the ground; and with the dragon's every breath, hot air blew past her, some smoke emitting from his nostrils.

Yet, he _wasn't_ the same monster, either. While he terrified her to the core upon their first meeting, she understood the intensity of his gaze now, and knew that when his wings stretched above her, it was an act of security. Of safety and protection.

He lowered his head, his neck craning down so Ahiru could reach him. She placed a hand on his scaly snout, balancing Uzura against her with one arm. "Fakir …?" Was he sure about this?

As if he knew what she silently asked, he answered by reaching out with one, large set of claws, inviting her to climb on. He was sure. It showed in the sudden softness in his green eyes.

She didn't think on it any longer.

She clumsily crawled onto his hand as best as she could with Uzura in her arms and swung her leg over the side of his long, scaly neck, sitting on the smooth area at the base of his nape before the protruding spines along his back began. Lamp flitted effortlessly through the air, plucked Fakir's discarded, ragged clothes into her tiny hands and hefted them onto Ahiru's lap where Uzura remained snuggled comfortably in her arms. The lady bug nestled into the crook of her arm, and held on.

Finally, with a great, heavy beat of his dark wings, the grasses rippled and shifted in the bursts of wind, and they took to the night skies.

Ahiru only glanced back to watch as Edel and the white valley disappeared beyond the treetops and rolling mountains, glowing distantly in the darkness.

Later, as the sun began to appear at the edge of the horizon, Ahiru had to shield her eyes, squinting at the sudden brightness. The light _hurt_ , so used to the dark as she was. She hardly knew how Fakir could continue flying at this rate.

But when her eyes finally adjusted and her vision cleared, her heart gave a bittersweet clench in her chest. And that was when Uzura awoke.

The absolute joy in Uzura's expression and the life in the little girl's eyes brought tears to Ahiru's. Fakir, who'd been flying slower than he had when he'd initially taken her from Vineta (undoubtedly for the safety and comfort of those on his back), turned his head to glance over, looking far less vicious with his eyes so warm.

Lamp's tiny, bell-like voice tittered sweetly from her position in Ahiru's hold as Uzura threw her hands up into the air, her little fingertips reaching for the clouds above them. "Ohhhhhh! The sky-zura!"

Ahiru wiped the moisture from her cheeks and laughed, fully and heartily, her voice escaping into the air as she let the exhilaration take her away from the worries and the questions. Those would come later.

She felt hope again. More than she had in a long, long time.

And as if Fakir knew, he gave a great heave of his wings, his speed picking up in excitement, trusting Ahiru to hold onto Uzura and Lamp while the child squealed in delight and thrill.

The pinks and the blues and the whites and the yellows streamed across the skies like ribbons, and though she _knew_ she didn't deserve it, though she knew that she wasn't good enough for this world, and certainly not worth Wyvern's loss, she just … couldn't help it.

It was all wrong, yet she was so, so happy to be alive.

* * *

Rue leaned over the basin and poured water from a pitcher over her head. Delicately, she washed out her thick curls, rivulets of water dripping down her pale neck.

However, she felt numb to the cold sensation, and it did little to wash away the lingering regret.

Many years passed since the last time she enacted her powers. She and Fakir were always so careful—so cautious. However, for the sake of Wyvern, her reservations against it had to be put aside.

Her legs quivered and she gripped the side of her table to keep from collapsing. She'd forgotten how exhausting and draining it could be—just another reason why she refrained from using her powers. Her ability was taxing on her body, and she pushed herself too far yesterday. Dancing for an entire village to open their hearts and minds to Elder Raven's influence took almost all of her energy. And then, she was forced to dance before Fakir.

She saw the betrayal in her brother's eyes, and the way his fierce expression slowly eased into a relaxed state as she twirled on her toes, her muscles burning and aching from the strain. Fakir resisted strongly and she found it difficult to break him down, but he'd always been infuriatingly stubborn and she should have expected that from him.

By the end of it, she won. She was able to be of _use_ to Elder Raven.

But at what cost?

Raven's plan was … brilliant. It gave her a sense of hope, validation, justice for all of their suffering, a way to keep Edel alive in their hearts. Protecting the world would give Rue a purpose.

And, as Elder Raven said, it would give her the chance to be loved. Truly _loved_. Like Giselle, so passionate and fortunate to find such a thing, regardless of her ultimate fate—vanishing in a flash of light after twenty-one days of freedom.

Rue wrung her hair out over the basin, trying to gather her strength with deep, composing breaths.

Yes, this was for the best. Elder Raven promised her she would find happiness in this way, and only in this way. "No brother will abandon you," he said, "No man will see you as a mere object. No so-called friends will look upon you with pity. Rue, my daughter, aid me, and you will find love in the world. This is the only way. No one can truly love you otherwise."

She was so tired of loneliness.

Running an old, broken comb through her hair, she stumbled back to her bed and sunk down into it, resting her weary muscles and tired spirit.

Using her powers against her brother was … necessary.

Fakir never understood her, and she never understood him. They were both so isolated from the rest, each born with an ability to change the world, weighed down by the inherent responsibility in their potential. Perhaps, as children, it kept them together as true siblings. However, years later, when darkness swallowed all that was good and light, and their very worlds crumbled, neither could recover what was lost.

She and her brother were so alike—stubborn and proud. Yet, so different as well.

Rue yearned for comfort and acceptance, while Fakir, like the fool he was, actively estranged himself from everyone. Elder Raven was right—Fakir was too selfish. As if _he_ was the only one who lost something all those years ago. As if he was the only one to lose his friends and his confidants and everything he used to love.

Giselle disappeared in a flash of light, miles and miles away from where Rue remained pathetically hidden in the darkness. And her brother left her to pick up the pieces while he hid away in his shame.

As Elder Raven said. All of this _was_ Fakir's fault.

However, he was still her brother.

And in betraying him, she betrayed _Ahiru_ as well.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest at the thought of the sacrifice who became someone more. Undoubtedly, Fakir must've bound her last night. Ahiru would be kept in isolation, and Rue saw to it that no one would seek out her company for the remainder of this horrible curse.

Perhaps, if Rue was quiet, she'd be able to pay a visit to her.

… Elder Raven would be absolutely furious.

Rue's hands clenched in the tattered fabric of her skirt. Perhaps Elder Raven had been correct in assuming Ahiru enacted some bewitchment or sorcery upon her and some of the others. Freya, Malen, and especially Hermia were particularly difficult to sway against protesting to Ahiru's strict confinement. Likewise, Uzura visibly adored her. It _must've_ been some kind of spell.

Why else would Rue feel such regret and despair?

Maybe this was one thing she and her brother had in common: they both fell prey to Ahiru's influence more than anyone else.

Rue's composure crumbled and she buried her face in her hands. She was so … tired. She hardly slept the night before despite how much she pushed her body and spirit.

She dropped the broken comb and allowed it to fall to the floor as she rested her head on the thin, ragged pillow, uncaring of the drenched state of her hair or how her tears stained her sheets.

"—Rue! _Rue!_ "

Her blood ran cold at Autor's frantic voice. She quickly wiped the wet streams from her cheeks and sat up, looking as dignified as she could before he burst in, shoving the fabric away from her door. His eyes were wild and his skin pale. "What is it?"

"The sacrifice—she's not here, is she?!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Damn it … _damn it_!" Autor bolted back outside, and she quickly put on her slippers to rush after him.

Outside, the villagers trickled out, worry and dread lining their features while Autor scrambled from hut to hut, agitated and distraught.

Meanwhile, Elder Raven, once again, stood in the center. And the hairs on the back of Rue's neck stood on end at the sight of him. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes …

The pure venom, the lethality and piercing, cold fury in his blood-red eyes left her stricken.

"Elder …?"

"You _failed_ , Rue. You've failed us all."

Her hands trembled. "... I—Elder, I don't know what you—?"

"The sacrifice is _gone._ Fakir and Uzura as well."

At this, her legs finally gave out, having gone through too much abuse these past couple of days, and she collapsed right where she was.

Ahiru, Fakir, and Uzura _left_?

But she surely … her dance must've _worked_! It always did!

She brought her quivering hands to her mouth, still in shock. She heard voices above her, but they couldn't overcome the swimming chaos in her mind. How could this all have happened? And so close to the final day.

Autor's desperate words and Raven's frigid tone echoed mutely in her ears.

"What now?! _Why_ now?! Fakir's a fool! He's doomed us all! We only have twenty days—!"

"Just enough time for him to keep her away from us without disappearing in a flash of light. He must have considered that. The timing was ideal for him."

"How did Rue's dance not—?!"

"She is weak. Autor, find them. And do not rest until you do."

"I—You want me to go out and—?"

"No. Chasing will take too long. Write and find them through history, and then we will overwhelm them with our numbers. You located the sacrifice before, haven't you?"

"Well, yes, but Fakir was the one who tracked down her location from what little I could find out! I don't know exactly _where_ he found her! And … I've been writing for _days_ , Elder, and it's too recent! I don't know if I can—!"

"Do not argue with me. The fate of Wyvern is on your shoulders. And Rue."

She didn't even look up when Raven addressed her.

"... You are just like your brother. A pathetic disappointment. How can anyone love you now?"

* * *

It was only a matter of time before Uzura grew too tired and hungry to continue on, despite the joy she took in the flight. When she began to whimper and her stomach growled against Ahiru's hand, Ahiru reached out with the other to gently stroke the scales on the back of Fakir's neck. "Fakir!" she cried out over the winds, "Ah, um, I know we're in a rush, but I think Uzura needs to stop for a little bit! C-Can we take a break?!"

Fakir arched his head back, large green and yellow eyes meeting hers before they glanced at Uzura, inspecting the little girl's state. He seemed to understand, his eyes softening, and faced forward to begin a gradual descent.

Ahiru braced Uzura and Lamp against her as Fakir dipped beneath the clouds, moisture cooling her cheeks as they passed.

When the clouds cleared, the expanse took her breath away. Forests and hills dotted the earth far beneath them, and all was green as far as the eye could see. It looked to be about midday, the sun high, warm, and welcoming on her cheeks. And the winds grew gentle now that Fakir started to slow down.

Ahiru's smile widened as they glided closer to the ground, the plains stretching out to the edges of sight and beyond while Fakir swiftly sliced through the air with his great wings.

It was like sprinting across the plains, very fast, very free.

Finally, he came to a slow stop at the edge of a quiet patch of forests, his beating wings blowing gusts of wind that rustled the trees and sent birds fleeing. He touched down to the ground.

Uzura, who'd grown impatient and antsy, wiggled excitedly out of Ahiru's hold and leapt carelessly down from Fakir's neck. Thankfully, Fakir caught her safely with one clawed hand and placed her onto the grass, so Ahiru didn't have to panic.

"Ohhhhh!" Enraptured by her surroundings, Uzura twirled around and scampered closer to one of the nearby trees to poke at a few wildflowers that grew next to its roots. Lamp followed, dutifully guarding her.

Ahiru had a harder time getting up after sitting for so long. She winced at the aches in her muscles and struggled to heave herself to the ground. Fakir rolled his large eyes and reached back to help her, and she gratefully stumbled onto his hard, padded palm. "Ah—thanks!" She plopped down clumsily to the grass, still cradling the bundle of Fakir's clothes in her arms, and let the circulation back into her legs while Fakir's towering form stretched out and scanned the immediate area.

"Fakir-zura!" Sprinting over, Uzura grinned and her eyes glittered. She hopped up and down in excitement while pointing to a tree that bore red fruit, patting his scales to get his attention.

Wyvern didn't have apples. This must've been an entirely new _world_ for her.

Ahiru laughed as Fakir raised a scaly eyebrow and lifted a claw to shake the apples from the branches. When dozens of the large, red fruits dropped to the ground, Uzura dashed over.

"Ah! Careful, okay, Uzura? Apples are hard and crunchy!"

"Ohhhhhh! Okie dokie-zura!"

"Fakir, why don't you change back and rest a little, too? Must've been a long time since you've had an apple!"

Despite his monstrous form, she could still make out the deadpan look in his eyes as he glanced at the wad of the clothes still curled up in her hold.

"Eh? Oh. Oh!"

_Oh_.

" _Gyaaah_ , I'm so _sorry_!" Heat rushed to her cheeks and, impulsively, she hurled the ball of fabric at him, the clothes flopping uselessly over his snout.

Petulantly, he plucked them from atop his nose and puffed hot air in her direction before stalking off toward the thickness of the trees (mindful not to accidentally swing his tail in their direction). She turned around to give him privacy, giving her attention instead to Uzura and Lamp.

They'd taken to sharing an apple, Uzura testing the texture and taste on her tongue with delight. Ahiru sat beside her, watching Lamp weave wildflowers into a crown for the little girl. "Ducky-zura," Uzura began curiously, "where are we going-zura?"

Ahiru hesitated. "Um … I guess back to where I came from."

"How come-zura?"

She wasn't sure. She didn't know at all. "I-To visit, maybe? I don't really know. It was Fakir's idea."

"Ohhhhhh! If it's Fakir's idea, then it's definitely a _good_ idea-zura!"

But Uzura didn't _understand_. Even Ahiru herself didn't understand.

Distantly, Ahiru could hear it—the snapping of bone and the pained, muffled grunts from behind a line of trees nearby. She bit her lip, her fingers trembling on the apple she held while awaiting for Fakir's struggles to end. Maybe asking him to change back was too much for him. Would it have been easier and less painful to remain as he was?

Soon enough, he stumbled into the clearing, wearing his trousers but still holding his shirt in his hand and wiping sweat from his brow. Ahiru should've averted her gaze immediately, but …

… The sight of the scars marring his form weren't unfamiliar to her. She recognized the violent gash that swept from his shoulder to his hip, but his opposite shoulder sported a new one—large, almost shaped like a star, where he'd been injured during Autor's transformation trying to save her.

And there he was, saving her again, for reasons she didn't know.

His scars terrified her once. Now … seeing him like this, toned and firm despite the old wounds across his broad shoulders was …

"What?"

"Eh?" Once again, she felt like her face caught fire when she met Fakir's tired, confused stare. She jumped to her feet, waving her arms back and forth as if trying to rid herself of _whatever_ she'd been thinking just now. "N-N-No, no, no, it's nothing! Definitely nothing at all, I was just worried about you because you were there for a while, but I get that it hurts every time for you, so I didn't mean to stare, I promise I meant nothing by it, so—!"

Uzura blinked owlishly up at her. "Ducky-zura?"

"Ahhhh, don't worry, I'm fine, hahaha!"

"Idiot," Fakir sighed, seemingly too drained to press the subject. He took a seat on a mossy patch on a fallen log, rubbing the back of his neck and rolling his shoulders. "We can't stay long. I think we're just a couple of hours away from that castle of yours, as long as there are no changes in the winds."

"... Right. Yeah, we should probably hurry. Maybe as soon as Uzura finishes!"

"We're going to see Ahiru's big castle-zura!"

"Yes! We're going to see a castle!" Recovering from her earlier embarrassment, Ahiru meandered forward and offered Fakir the apple in her hand. "Here! You need something to eat more than any of us!"

He took the offered fruit and bit into it, chewing slowly, almost considering its taste. He probably wasn't used to it.

When a few seconds of silence passed, Ahiru sat beside him on the log, both of them keeping an eye on Uzura and Lamp as they ate.

There were so many questions …

"Fakir?" She lowered her voice so Uzura couldn't hear. When he didn't give her a verbal answer, she continued. "I … why did—last night, how come—why did we leave?"

What happened, what changed, and what pushed Fakir to do something so drastic out of _nowhere_?

He glanced away. "Don't worry about it. The important thing is getting you away from there. Your prince will keep you safe. I may need you to look after Uzura for me while I draw them off and figure something out before—"

She straightened, her eyes widening. "W-Wha?! No way! You can't do all of this alone!"

With a scowl, he shook his head, staring bitterly down at his half-eaten apple. "I have to. I made the decision to bring you back."

"What for? I already made a promise to all of you, and now …!"

Fakir grit his teeth. "It was a promise you shouldn't have had to make."

"I just want answers! You've always told me what I've always needed to know!" She hardened herself, giving him the fiercest pout she could manage without looking ridiculous. "So just tell me _why_!"

He stared at her for a long moment, challenging her pout with a glare, before he finally relented. "Raven. He planned to turn us all into true dragons—keep our forms under control, as soon as the curse lifted." He gave her a significant glance, his expression hardening. "As soon as we _killed_ you, he'd use us all to get his stupid revenge on everything else in this world. You would die for nothing."

Ahiru felt the blood drain her from face.

"He's already got Rue convinced that this is for the best. And having Rue under his control means he has _everyone_ under his control."

… Rue's dance. That was right. Rue was known to dance so beautifully, she could sway a person's heart to whatever she wished of them.

Fakir said something to that effect last night. That somehow, whatever Rue tried to do, it didn't _work_ on him. And that was when he took her to the entrance, and they escaped with Lamp and Uzura.

Was Raven really capable of such a thing? Ahiru never liked him, and constantly felt so unsettled just being in his presence, but she never imagined that he would want something like this.

Then again, her own ancestor was capable of horrible things, too.

People like that actually lived in the world. People who only wanted power, or revenge, or to take and steal and hurt, just because. There were people with unimaginable selfishness, with terrible intentions that Ahiru never would've even dreamed of in her short, simple life. These people existed, and would always exist.

… But there were good people, too.

There were people like her mother—generous and giving, who nurtured with warm embraces and smiles. There were people like Pique and Lilie—silly and dramatic, but with genuine tenderness and joy. There were people like her sweet, wonderful Mytho—kind, responsible, and gentle, who led with strength and honesty.

And even in the dark, deep abyss, she found sweet and compassionate Hermia, tenderhearted and intuitive Malen, serene and mild Freya, and innocent and curious Uzura. And, no matter what Rue might've done, Rue was caring and _kind_. Just like her brother.

Ahiru's lips set into a determined line as she looked at Fakir.

There were good people like Fakir everywhere in the world. Even in the darkest places.

Wasn't that worth protecting?

Weren't they _all_ worth saving?

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "Are you spacing out again?"

"Fakir! You're definitely not alone!"

He blinked, not following.

"You're not doing this alone! When we get to Vineta, I'm sure we can figure it all out together, with Mytho! We'll save everyone from disappearing, and keep the world safe, too! I don't know how, but—but we _have_ to!

"You said yesterday that you'd change this fate. Well, I wanna change it with you!"

Fakir's lips parted, and a strange look crossed his features. It was a slight shift in his eyes, maybe amazement, or awe. "Ahiru …"

Before either of them could speak again, Lamp fluttered up and crossed Ahiru's field of vision, blocking her view of Fakir. The lady bug looked concerned and pointed in Uzura's direction.

They turned to see Uzura, curled up at the base of a tree with her knees to her chest. The child's bottom lip trembled, her large eyes rippling with brimming tears. In an instant, they were on their feet and striding up to check on her. "Uzura—?!" Ahiru dropped to her knees beside her while Fakir knelt down on her other side.

With a sniffle and a hiccup, Uzura wrung her tiny hands in her skirt, blubbering. "F-Forgot my drum-zura …!"

"Oh …" Ahiru sadly bit her lip and looked at Fakir. He didn't seem to fare any better, guilt marring his face. He'd probably forgotten her most important possession in his rush to leave, the last gift Edel gave to her daughter before …

Evidently, Fakir realized the full gravity of it.

Ahiru stood up, forcing a smile. "Ah … we can go back and get it soon! But for now … how about we get another one? Just for now! L-Look, don't the branches look like … like drumsticks? Right? Ahaha ..." It might've been a ridiculous idea, but it was the only one she had.

He glanced up in question, before catching on with a small smirk (and Ahiru couldn't help but be astonished by it). "Yeah." He got to his feet and rubbed his chin in mock-thought, staring up at the trees. "What do you think, Uzura?"

Uzura rubbed her eyes and followed their gazes. She sniffed, but her expression lightened. "Ohhhhh …"

Ahiru reached down to take Uzura's hand. "I don't know how to make a real drum, but we can get one from Mytho when we meet him, I'm sure!"

"This is a good start," Fakir added, lifting an arm to lower a branch so he could snap off two thin sticks. Then, he offered them to Uzura. "Here. Use these for now. Drum on my scales if you want, and don't worry. We'll get your real one back." He paused, giving Ahiru a rather meaningful glance. "We're not leaving it behind."

_We're not leaving anyone behind._

A warmth swelled inside of her, and she happily nodded in agreement.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asked, "Do you think we can keep going?"

"Mm! Let's go back to the sky-zura!" Uzura bounced on her heels, her happy mood returning. Lamp likewise buzzed about excitedly.

Right. For everyone in Wyvern, and for everyone else, they'd take to the skies again, and go see Mytho. This was what she truly wanted. This was why Fakir saved her. Didn't he say …?

No, he didn't say this was the only reason he saved her.

" _I only needed one more reason to save you and Raven gave it to me!"_

… What were his other reasons?

"Hey, idiot, you ready to go?"

"Ah … yeah! I'm definitely ready!"

Well, she'd ask him about it later.

* * *

Karon and Raetsel perused the bookshelves for other tomes and volumes while Mr. Katz pored over the materials already on the grand table. Lysander remained with his knights on the training grounds, distracting Prince Siegfried with sparring and military strategies. It was all they could do for their prince at this point.

It served to be quite the endeavor considering the sheer size of the library itself. Shelves towered for three stories and extended onward, the room larger than the vast ballroom on the other side of the Grand Chateau. They remained in the nonfiction sections toward the back of the hall, their eyes growing tired.

Mr. Katz sighed, polishing his reading glasses. "A ritual, involving rose petals and candles," he muttered idly to himself in consideration, "Miss Raetsel, if you would please come here for a moment?"

She did as he asked, bringing two more books with her and placing them on the growing stack in front of him. "Yes?"

"Do any of these symbols on this page look familiar?"

Her eyes scanned over the images, glazing over five-point shapes, circles, and triangles in varying combinations and sizes. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Katz. He sat in a circle of candles and petals. That is all I can remember. I apologize."

"That's quite alright, Miss Raetsel." He sighed and reached for another open book. "The bull is the animal of Rungholt's royal family?"

"Yes," Karon answered, coming forward with several scrolls, "Such as the swan being the symbol for our own kingdom."

"I see, I see." Mr. Katz flipped through a few more pages. "The bull. A symbol of strength and royalty—no doubt they selected the bull for this very reason. It is also known that a bull's blood was often used in sacrifices and rituals during ancient times." He paused to pick up a quill, dip it into the inkwell beside him, and write this down. "It would not be beyond the realm of possibility that our dear Prince Femio comes from a long line of wizardry. Though, I cannot comprehend why Rungholt waited this long if they had such powers all this time. Why now?"

Raetsel, who sat across from him and unraveled one of the scrolls, glanced up. "Mr. Katz, look at this."

Mr. Katz's yellow eyes narrowed as he took the scroll from her hand and glanced across the words. "Yes, yes, the Raven Constellation, its formation predicted by the legendary wizard, Drosselmeyer. It appears that it will align sometime this year—this month, in fact." He wrote this down as well.

Karon busied himself with a rather heavy leather-bound book. "Constellations, roses, bulls … Is it possible that these things can be connected? Seems like quite the stretch."

"Yes, a stretch, perhaps. _Unless_ Prince Femio and the kingdom of Rungholt descend directly from D. D. Drosselmeyer." He stroked his mustache. "We cannot afford to disregard any possibility. After all, several of Drosselmeyer's acts and miracles were known to be performed with _rose_ petals. I think we may be getting closer to having our answers." The scholar stood. "I suppose I'll have to look for any volumes containing the wizard's name. Perhaps there is some way to combat spells of this sort—some documentation that can shed light on how these things all connect.

"But I feel as though there is still something we are _missing_. A key piece of the puzzle. Though I know not how to begin to find it."

Raetsel and Karon stood to join him in his search, but he lifted a hand to stop them. "Ah, but first, I think I will have a snack. Have no fear, I need no escort; I will send for one of your lovely maids—ah, the majority of them are unmarried, yes?"

The housekeeper frowned and Karon pinched the bridge of his nose.

* * *

General Lysander frowned at the prince beside him, his shoulders heavy.

Prince Siegfried sent word to withdraw the knights he'd sent out in search of Lady Ahiru. He'd decided to pour the entirety of his forces into this war. Evidently, the prince believed it was a waste of manpower otherwise. Lady Ahiru was dead.

While Lysander didn't want to believe it, it was the only logical conclusion. Plans for a funeral would soon be underway.

He focused wholly on the knights lined up before him in formation, catapults, trebuchets, and ballistas situated next to the battalions. Displeased with this turn of events, Lysander felt a migraine coming on.

It was the first time he disagreed so strongly with Prince Siegfried's judgment, but the general was under the impression that a defensive strategy would be most wise in this scenario, where the odds were greatly stacked against them. But with the these siege weapons and Siegfried's direct order to hit Rungholt before Femio and his forces could act, it seemed that defense was no longer the goal.

He needed to keep Siegfried's attention on this, however. That was the agreement he came to with Karon, Raetsel, and Mr. Katz. Though he wasn't privy to their plans or their theories, he agreed that Prince Siegfried changed into someone else altogether.

It showed in the way he fought, the way he led, the way he planned. He grew abrasive and violent, almost _accusing_ in his manner, to the point where the knights questioned their charge for the first time.

But what could be done?

Disheartened on a level he'd never felt before, Lysander stepped forward to address his men, ignoring the way his skin prickled when he felt the prince's unusually and chillingly sharp gaze on his back.

However, before he could speak, Sir Demetri stumbled forward, frantic and shaking. "Look, sir! Look to the sky!"

Gasps and murmurs permeated over the courtyard where the knights gathered as they turned their eyes skyward. Lysander followed in confusion.

"It's a monster! A winged creature on the horizon!"

"It's coming this way, _it's coming this way_!"

"Northward! Look northward!"

Lysander felt his mouth go dry, his eye finally catching on the beast in the sky, quickly nearing them—black and foreboding, like a shadow encroaching into the daylight, with ghastly wings and a long, monstrous neck and tail. A creature born from nightmares.

The seasoned knight, who had seen a great deal of battles and hardships, froze, petrified on the spot.

A dragon. It was a _dragon_.

Prince Siegfried stepped forward, his pinkish eyes burning and piercing, his lips curling into an uncharacteristic snarl as he glared fiercely up at the approaching monster.

And Lysander remembered then, the information they'd been given a month ago. Lady Ahiru was spirited away by a dark monster, northbound.

So, the general made no attempt to protest against the prince's next command, his words cold and icy, and full of unmasked hatred.

"Shoot it down. _Destroy it_!"

* * *

"It'll be so great when we get there, Uzura!"

"Ohhhhh!"

"Mytho's city is beautiful! And everyone's so nice there! It's really peaceful and I think you'll really love the castle!"

Uzura tap-tap-tapped against Fakir's scales excitedly. "Are there apples there, too-zura?"

"Lots and lots, if that's what you like!"

Ahiru recognized these rolling hills. She flew over them a month ago on the Pegasus-drawn carriage when she traveled from Hedeby to meet her prince. They were almost there.

"Soon," she said, cuddling Uzura close while Lamp tucked herself into a nest within Fakir's clothes, "you're going to see the big towers, and the lake that the castle sits on. And the big, big town that surrounds the grounds. It's so great, Uzura! You're really going to love it, I think."

Maybe, now that Fakir was here for an entirely different reason, he'd come to love it, too. Idly, she pressed a hand to his neck, patting him gently.

Soon enough, as she said, the lofty towers of the Grand Chateau reflected the afternoon sunlight, its crystalline brightness matching that of the clear lake that surrounding the palace.

"Ohhhhh! It's so pretty-zura!"

However, Fakir released a low growl, the rumble vibrating down to his nape and startling Ahiru. Did … did he sound mad? Or worried?

She leaned over, squinting toward the castle to see what concerned him so much.

She didn't expect to see lines and lines of people—knights?—within the castle grounds. They were organized in neat blocks while loading up large contraptions she didn't recognize, especially from this high up. And from the way Fakir slowed his flight, he was worried about … something.

They didn't expect to be spotted this far out. Fakir wanted to land close enough without drawing attention, but they were in a rush and Ahiru assured him that Mytho was peaceful, understanding, and—!

Fakir released a bellowing roar and reared back as some kind of sharp-tipped projectile sliced through the air, almost piercing his wing.

With a scream, Ahiru latched onto Uzura and Lamp on instinct, losing balance and rolling right off his back. The wind left her lungs, breath escaping her entirely as Fakir deftly twisted around to catch them in his padded palms.

_What's going on?!_

Fakir pitched forward, cradling them close as he avoided another bolt. Smoke billowed from his nostrils as he maneuvered as best as he could while under this sudden attack. All Ahiru could do was keep Uzura and Lamp curled safely between her and the dragon's bodies.

Were they prepared for an attack of some sort? It looked like they were getting ready for some kind of battle, and now …!

She heard Uzura cry out and Lamp's wings shudder in fright as Fakir suddenly dove forward, and she clenched her eyes shut in preparation for the rough landing.

Time froze and her body went numb as Fakir's body collided and rolled into the earth. He kept them safely in the cocoon of his hands and chest, but her head spun from the impact and shuddering movement. The world slowed around her as his claws loosened, releasing her, the child, and the lady bug into the air.

She couldn't catch her breath as she barreled into the ground, turning over and over before she came to a stop on the ground, her body aching everywhere and her chest heaving.

Dully, she heard Uzura's frantic voice calling out for Fakir, and felt Lamp's warm hand rest on her cheek. "I-I'm okay …!" Ahiru croaked, forcing her eyes open. "U-Uzura—?!"

Though her vision continued to spin, she could make out the little girl, thankfully standing beside the prone dragon a few yards away. When the haze on her mind cleared somewhat, she saw that Uzura's knees were bleeding, and the poor girl was crying, but otherwise, she seemed okay—!

Lamp cast a warm glow on her face, comforting her. Ahiru let her eyes fall shut as she attempted to gather what little strength she had. She heard the muted sounds of Fakir's pain in the midst of her own, his monstrous roars melting into moans of torment as he changed back into his human form.

She struggled to lift her head, focusing her gaze in Uzura and Fakir's direction. Their blurry figures shifted, Uzura scrambling around to gather his clothes from where they must've scattered several feet away and delivering them to him. His motions were slow and lumbering as he pulled on his pants to cover himself, but in his rush, he didn't bother with his shirt. Instead, he stumbled toward Ahiru, his breaths heavy. "A-Ahi—!"

But the ground rumbled with the force of dozens of heavy footfalls, and there was yelling, and clanking …

Finally, air returned to her lungs, her vision cleared, and time sped forward again, her body finally orienting itself just as Vinetian knights surrounded Fakir and Uzura. The little girl clung to Fakir's leg in fright.

Ahiru opened her mouth. "W-Wait—!"

"Ahiru! _Ahiru_!"

… Mytho.

Ahiru's lips parted as she felt him gather her into his arms, the embrace warm, affectionate, and protective … everything she associated with her prince. Her eyes swelled with tears, her heart burst, and relief flooded through every inch of her very being.

She truly believed she'd never see him again.

"M-Mytho …!"

He pulled back to look at her, his eyes a brilliant gold, worry and sheer relief lining his forehead. "Oh, Ahiru … you're here. You're _safe_! I thought I'd lost you—that I'd never see you again! I never should have left you alone!"

A few other knights rushed to her aid, leaning down to help her up from the grass. Her body still throbbed from her ordeal, but at least her head stopped spinning and she could stand up straight. Even then, she found herself leaning against Mytho for support, marveling that she never thought she would get this chance. And likewise, he held her tightly, holding her to him and burying his nose in her hair.

But … this wasn't the reunion she'd dreamed of.

Everything she'd gone through these past few weeks crashed down upon her all at once, and she remembered why she was here. Who she was. What she'd experienced. She wasn't the same, silly duchess as she was before. She was changed—for better or worse, she didn't know.

It was that reminder that had her looking back toward Fakir and Uzura.

"Nnngggg _gaaaaah_!"

"F-Fakir-zura!"

Ahiru stared in horror as Fakir dropped to his knees, his eyes wild and body shaking. Somehow, in those short moments, the knights shackled him, and the skin around the irons began to glow red and _smoke_. Lamp instinctively shrank away from the chains, her glow dimming, as if _knowing_ they would hurt her, too. Uzura, distressed, attempted to pull the shackles away from Fakir entirely. But, as if stung by the same magic, she dropped the metal with a high-pitched whine, her palms reddened as if burned.

"N-No, Uzura, _don't touch it_!" Fakir barked through his pain, his teeth grinding beneath snarling lips.

Ahiru didn't know why, or how those shackles could hurt them like that, but they'd gone through _too_ much.

Wrenching herself away from Mytho's hold and the rest of the knights, she bolted past them all and dropped to her knees before Fakir, overwhelmed, distraught, and simply too weary of everything. And she didn't _care_ if she was being unladylike or improper in front of Mytho. Things weren't the same anymore.

She yanked at the chains—simple iron, doing her no harm at all—and cried out toward the nearest knight, "T-Take them off! They're _hurting_ him!"

Mytho, stunned, stepped forward. "... Ahiru …"

" _Please_ , Mytho! They saved me! They brought me back! They didn't do anything wrong!"

Fakir's muscles began to spasm.

" _Mytho_!"

The prince's eyes, previously so brilliant in its golden hue, dimmed into a strange pinkness that had Ahiru blinking a couple of times to see if she was just imagining it.

"... Well," he said in a cool tone that shocked her, "Lady Ahiru claims they saved her. So, what are you waiting for? Release him, Sir Demetri."

The knight, one of the youngest Ahiru had seen, immediately stepped forward to unlock and unlatch the metal from Fakir's wrists. And as the irons fell away, his skin returned to their natural shade. She immediately reached out to cup Fakir's cheeks in an attempt to calm him before he lost control. "Fakir? Fakir, it's okay, it's okay, see? It's alright …"

Though he shuddered and twitched, he leaned into her touch, taking deep, composing breaths. Uzura whimpered and sniffled, rubbing at her eyes before she stepped forward and cuddled into Fakir's side. He weakly curled his arm around the little girl, his shoulders relaxing.

It dawned on Ahiru that they had an audience, and she stood up, shielding Fakir, Uzura, and Lamp from the Vinetians. She wasn't much of a protector, but she had to do her best. Her eyes sought out Mytho's, though the sudden frigidity in his eyes unnerved her.

Was he feeling alright?

"Mytho, they … they're my friends! They brought me back. I … there's so much that happened!"

And she had her own share of questions, too. These knights all seemed _prepared_ for something. Were they simply waiting for her return all this time?

The prince lifted a hand, an amiable, yet cold, smile touching his lips. "Of course, of course. Certainly, you must all need your rest. I apologize for our … eagerness. But there have been new developments this month. I suppose we need to catch up."

… There was something different about Mytho. She couldn't place it.

"Then," he continued, nodding to his guards, "please escort our new guests of honor to the Grand Chateau at once. They deserve every ounce of our hospitality."

"Your Highness, are you _certain_ that—?"

"Of course, General Lysander. They brought back my beloved fiancee. Why should we not welcome them with open arms?"

Demetri helped Fakir get to his feet, the latter still rubbing his wrists anxiously. But as they passed the prince, Fakir paused in his step, taking Uzura's hand while Lamp sat on his shoulder.

The dragon's eyes met the prince's, neither saying anything for several seconds. Ahiru didn't know what to make of it.

Finally, Fakir spoke. "... I need ink, paper, and a quill."

He wanted to write? Now?

"Certainly. As my princess's rescuers, you shall have all that you desire."

Fakir briefly glanced over his shoulder at Ahiru, his green eyes unreadable, before he, Uzura, and Lamp followed Sir Demetri toward the village.

"Shall we, my lady? You must have injuries that need tending to."

She blinked out of her reverie, her eyes wide as Prince Siegfried appeared beside her, that smile still on his lips.

He truly did seem … off. It must've been her imagination.

Disregarding the strangeness, she nodded her head, trying to just be thankful to be by Mytho's side once again. Curling her arm around his, she leaned against his shoulder, and let him lead her back to the walls of Vineta.

Things would fall into place … wouldn't they?


	13. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, meeting a prince like Siegfried would've inspired him. Perhaps he would've written a story of the prince's bravery and unwavering warmth. A story of royalty, knights, and miracles, brimming with possibility.
> 
> But this wasn't a story he could write, and this wasn't his world. His world lay deep underground, mere shades and ruins of what Wyvern used to be. And even then, Fakir left it all behind.
> 
> This place belonged to a real prince and his future princess.
> 
> Their engagement wasn't fiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading, everyone! Sorry for the delay on this chapter. I'd like to make a special note to thank blueberryhope on tumblr for the amazing cover art for Curse of the Dragon! If you want to see it up close, go see my tumblr and check it out! I also highly recommend checking out blueberryhope's, mommacomm's, ampharos98's, and zerozeroren's art on their respective blogs.
> 
> If you're reading, you four, thank you ENDLESSLY for drawing for this fic! It means the world to me, and seriously such an uplifting, pleasant surprise!
> 
> :D I really appreciate all the constant support and wonderful comments! All comments and criticism are welcome!

Mytho took it upon himself to escort Ahiru, Uzura, and Lamp personally to her quarters to freshen up after their ordeal. And all the while, he never removed his arm from her waist.

Now that it was quiet, Ahiru wanted to enjoy this moment—this precious reunion she thought she never would get to have.

She allowed Uzura to scamper ahead, Lamp leading the way through the halls, while she lingered behind with Mytho, resting her head on his shoulder. His grip around her tightened and she felt her heart flutter. He embraced her with such warmth and comfort. How could she have forgotten what it felt like to be with him?

Neither spoke, though, acutely aware of their questions and concerns. Ahiru certainly didn't want to say anything now—not when she was just so _grateful_ to be beside him once more. Why would she ruin this singular moment of contentedness she found here at home? With Mytho?

… It would be easy to shatter this fragile peace. One question, one misstep. She realized then that she spent so much time away from him and the self-consciousness set in slowly. Was she poised enough? Did she lean too heavily on him? Did her behavior reflect that of her standing?

After a month in Wyvern, she'd forgotten she was a duchess and future queen. In Wyvern, she was a sacrifice. Just a girl.

And to think, not more than an hour ago, she was scampering around outside, shielding Fakir, Uzura, and Lamp, behaving in a way that was completely and utterly inelegant. Her mother wouldn't have done such things so rashly.

… Not that she regretted her actions. But she should've behaved better.

Mytho didn't release her until they reached her door. And even then, his touch lingered upon her hip in an almost intimate fashion. Her heart skipped a beat and her cheeks warmed. "Ah … Mytho …"

He reached out and stroked her chin, leaving her lips trembling. "I've waited, Ahiru. You don't know how I've suffered this past month."

Her hands clenched in her skirt. "I'm so … so _sorry_ , Mytho! You must've been worried, and I—"

"Please, don't be." He brushed her mussed hair behind her ear, his fingertips oddly … cold. "All I ask is, now that you are with me—" With a pause, he pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes cloudy and tinged with pink. "—let me have your heart."

Her lips parted and the warmth in her chest suddenly dissipated. It should've been such a sweet, romantic thing to hear from her fiance, so … why did her stomach just drop? Was it the sudden, demanding tone? The sharpness of his words? "Mytho?"

"Love _only me_ , Ahiru."

_What …?_ Ahiru found herself reaching up to her pendant, and clutched it tightly.

"Ducky-zura!"

Ahiru jumped and Mytho drew his touch away from her. "A-Ah, Uzura! What is it?"

Uzura blinked owlishly and pointed to the now open door, where two familiar faces blanched at her.

" _Lady Ahiru~!"_

In an instant, Pique and Lilie were upon her, their arms thrown around her neck as they embraced her in a mess of sobs and squeals. And in that moment, the warmth in her chest suddenly burst into full flame.

Her friends. Her best friends!

The tears welled up in her eyes as she embraced them right back, blubbering uselessly. She didn't even know what to say. She didn't care, either. Seeing them again brought her back to a better time. Their words likewise were lost in their sobs and laughter, Pique and Lilie bouncing on their toes as the stroked her hair, fretted over her and kissed her cheeks.

"Come on, you have scrapes and bruises, Ahiru! You need help!"

"Oh my, you look as if you just came out of a _battle_ ~!"

They cooed over her new company, Uzura grinning at the attention and Lamp fluttering shyly and hiding in Ahiru's hair.

But before they ushered her into the room to help them clean up, Ahiru sought Mytho out.

He'd already disappeared down the hall.

* * *

Not for the first time, Fakir found himself staring down at a blank page, a quill poised in his hand, the tip dipped in ink. This time, however, the ink was black—of the highest quality he'd ever seen, in an expensive inkwell labeled elegantly with the name of the maker and his business. This ink would leave no smudges, boast a bold color, and create smooth, legible strokes across the paper.

Still, he missed the small jar of shimmering, silvery liquid, and regretted destroying it and leaving it behind. If he was to change fate with the power of his writing, shouldn't he have done so with her ink? If only because she made it for him?

Instead of this manufactured ink given to him by that prince of hers.

The door to the guestroom opened. "Fakir-zura? Are you okay-zura?" Uzura asked as she stepped inside, her eyes wide and blinking. Lamp fluttered inside after her.

He just then realized how tightly he clenched the quill.

Uzura came to stand beside him, tapping her makeshift drum sticks together and rocking back and forth on her heels. Meanwhile, Lamp fluttered over to peek into the dark inkwell with a frown, as if disapproving of it.

A couple of servant girls—one with magenta hair and the other with blonde pigtails—lingered at the door, their hands covering their mouths as they stared at him in wonder and, alarmingly enough, open excitement. When they caught him glaring at them in return, they squeaked and retreated, the door clicking shut behind them.

He let go of the quill and cleared his throat. "I'm fine, Uzura. Don't worry. How are you feeling?"

Uzura's expression brightened and Fakir immediately felt better at the sight of her smile. She twirled on the tips of her toes to show off her new dress, courtesy of the castle staff. And, more importantly, her scrapes and bruises were properly bandaged. "I'm wearing a new pretty thing-zura!" Indeed, the petite skirt, the delicate lace, and the soft colors of the garment suited her quite well. Edel would've liked it on her, no doubt.

Expression softening, he leaned back in his chair and released a breath. At least one of them enjoyed her new clothes. Fakir, on his part, found them to be stifling. The white shirt and brown, fitted vest felt too fine and constricting, the sleeves were annoyingly _flowy_ , and his pants clung uncomfortably around his legs. For the first time in centuries, the clothes he wore lacked rips, tears, or crude stitching.

It wasn't just the new outfit, either. _Everything_ about this place alienated him. That bed was too soft, that bath was too warm, this whole guestroom was lavish and gaudy.

The walk through the halls of the castle proved to be a trial in itself. The whispers and gasps as he passed the bustling servants didn't escape his notice, nor did he fail to perceive the knights' hands upon the hilts of their swords as they escorted him to a vacant guestroom. Suspicion and distrust didn't bother him—he grew accustomed to that long ago—but the feeling of exposure did. He had to carry Uzura and Lamp in his arms to stop them from curiously wandering off and causing even more of a fuss, at least before they were led off to a different room where those giggling servant girls helped them clean up.

At first, Fakir almost fought through the armored soldiers, insisting fervently that Uzura and Lamp stay with him. Until Ahiru's hand found its way to his elbow.

"It's okay!" she reassured him with a weak smile, "I'll look after them, too! Okay? So … you just focus on cleaning up and feeling better!" And then, she skipped off with them, hand-in-hand with her prince.

He'd seen the prince before when he sought out the last of Drosselmeyer's bloodline. Siegfried had the bearing of a man of dignity and kindness, and in the core of Fakir's heart, he did feel some semblance of regret for taking away the man's fiancee. The stupid redhead who all but clung to the prince's side with her silly, lacy fan and demure giggles … Fakir, at the time, figured he was doing Siegfried a _favor_.

… This time was different. Seeing her collapsed on the ground after they crashed violently into the earth, while he was powerlessly detained by searing shackles and that prince cradled her close …

The pain in his wrists had nothing on the burning sensation in his chest.

Once upon a time, meeting a prince like Siegfried would've inspired him. Perhaps he would've written a story of the prince's bravery and unwavering warmth. A story of royalty, knights, and miracles, brimming with possibility.

But this wasn't a story he could write, and this wasn't his world. His world lay deep underground, mere shades and ruins of what Wyvern used to be. And even then, Fakir left it all behind.

This place belonged to a real prince and his future princess.

Their engagement wasn't fiction.

Uzura's small hands found his own clenched fist. "Fakir-zura?"

"Sorry." He shook his head, appalled with himself. What was he thinking? Why were his thoughts lingering on _her_ when everything else was falling apart around him? After all, he abandoned his village. His sister. And in doing so, he endangered every single one of them, Uzura included.

Taking Ahiru back to her prince was the only thing he was sure of. Yet, it still changed nothing.

In less than twenty days, either she died, or they all disappeared in a flash of light. He and Ahiru still couldn't even exist in the same world.

He thought back to the words he shared with her before they escaped. He wanted to change this fate and she wanted to do the same. But _could_ they? He hadn't thought any of this through.

Fakir ran a frustrated hand through his hair, softer now after washed with the soaps provided for him. The strands felt strange. "Just … having some trouble writing."

Uzura poked him in the knee with the drum stick. "Ask Ducky for help-zura!"

"She's busy," he countered, trying to swallow down the bitter taste in his mouth.

"But she always helps-zura! Isn't it easier to make stories when she's there-zura? Ducky said that she likes it when you ask for help and let her do stuff, too-zura!"

… He did promise, in his own way, to let Ahiru help. And by extension, the prince as well.

Why did he feel this stubborn, clawing aggravation regardless?

He glared down at the empty page, his fingertips tapping on the wooden surface as he began to realize just what he'd _done_.

He didn't have time to question his decisions until now. And he certainly didn't regret it—not when Raven's plans were already in motion. Yes, this was what he had to do. Saving Ahiru was the only thing that made sense.

But he'd left them all. He'd _left_ them. In a single instant, in one brash decision, he once again threw all of them into chaos. Everything that happened from then on rested upon his shoulders and no one else's.

His hands began to shake. His eyes began to burn.

Lamp buzzed off of the desk to sit on top of Uzura's head as a knock rang out from the door. Fakir took a deep, shuddering breath, and stood to open it.

Judging from the woman's attire, she was of a higher status than the other members of the castle staff. She bowed her head, her long, brown locks falling over one shoulder. There was a guarded look in her eyes, and two knights accompanied her as well—surely they feared the monster that showed up out of nowhere with their missing duchess.

Fakir didn't blame them.

"We hope you've found this room to your satisfaction, sir," she said, cordial and formal, "My name is Raetsel, the housekeeper of the Grand Chateau."

He nodded stiffly.

"His Highness, Prince Siegfried, has summoned you to his throne room. Did you have enough time to freshen up?"

"... Yeah."

"Then, shall I escort you now?"

Fakir sent an anxious glance back at Uzura, Lamp, and the blank page still sitting on the desk. "... I'm trying to work on something right now." Not that he was making any progress when there were far too many things on his mind.

The knights shifted, their armor grinding under the movement as Raetsel lifted her chin a bit. "I'm afraid, considering the circumstances, His Highness cannot wait. You must understand. In the meantime, your companions may remain in the dining room." She tilted her head, staring in wonder at the glowing lady bug sitting on Uzura's head. "There is plenty of food, if you're hungry."

Uzura waddled closer and tugged on Fakir's sleeve. "Fakir-zura! Is that okay-zura?"

His jaw clenched at the thought of being separated from them again, but causing more trouble didn't seem wise at the moment. Go see the prince, explain what happened, and then get back to writing. That was the only plan he had right now.

Fakir gave Raetsel a nod and followed her and the two knights out into the grand hallway, his shoulders slumped with the weight of everything.

He was so tired.

* * *

It'd been a long time since Ahiru donned such fine clothes.

Her chest heaved due to the compression of the corset around her abdomen, the ruffly, blue gown heavy and constricting. Her hair weighed heavily upon her head, piled up in intricate pins and curls that were quite different than the simple braid she wore for the last month or so. And her dainty slippers impeded her ability to keep balance, as clumsy as she was even on her bare feet.

Strange. She'd grown up like this, and yet she still didn't quite feel like herself. She toyed with her pendant, back to old habits.

… But wasn't she a different person now?

Ahiru stopped in front of the closed doors of the throne room to which she'd been summoned after she fully dressed herself and her wounds. Immediately, she missed Pique's and Lilie's company, wishing for their excitable questions and chatter over the echoing silence of the unfamiliar castle halls.

When she thought about it, she'd spent far longer in Wyvern than she ever did in the Grand Chateau. Neither place felt like home. So … being back here wasn't as comforting as she thought it would be.

A familiar voice, accompanied by light footsteps, came from behind her. "Lady Ahiru!"

Careful not to trip on her skirts, Ahiru turned, her expression brightening upon seeing another familiar face. "Miss Raetsel!"

The housekeeper, lovely as ever, wasted no time in placing her hands to Ahiru's cheeks. The woman looked her up and down, a smile touching her colored lips. "Oh, we've all been so worried about you! I heard you suffered from some injuries, and I wish so badly I could've tended to you immediately. I hope your friends took good care of you! I sent the little girl and the … fairy creature—"

"Lady bug," Ahiru corrected, though her voice intermingled in unison with a deeper, familiar tone—Fakir.

"Ah, yes," Raetsel amended, "the little girl and the ... _lady bug_ were sent to the dining room …"

Despite Raetsel's fretting, Ahiru's gaze meandered over the housekeeper's shoulder to look at the people who accompanied her. Two knights, their hands still poised on the hilts of their blades, and Fakir.

She'd never seen him so polished before. And in the waning light of the setting sun, the orange-pink rays streaming in through the windows that lined the hallway, she finally let herself truly look at him. At the very least, he cleaned up quite well. With piercing, deep green eyes and dark features, perhaps she only had to see him in the light to notice how handsome he was.

Her cheeks warmed, though she didn't know why.

Fakir raised an eyebrow at her. She blinked. Then, he rolled his eyes and nudged his head in Raetsel's direction.

Raetsel had been looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for some kind of reply to a question Ahiru didn't hear. Ahiru's blush deepened, and she could practically hear Fakir's reprimand through his look alone. _Stop spacing out, idiot._

"I-I'm sor—! I mean, pardon me! Could you please say that agai—um, once more, please?"

The housekeeper gave her a tiny smile. "It's quite alright. You must be tired. I asked if I may announce your arrival to the prince and his company now. There's much to be discussed, I imagine." She spared a glance over her shoulder toward Fakir, giving him a guarded look.

"Yeah—yes, of course!"

"Then, it'll be just a moment."

Raetsel stepped past her and inched the grand doors open before slipping inside, leaving Ahiru alone with Fakir and the two knights who stood a few yards away. Ahiru watched as the housekeeper disappeared beyond the threshold, the barrier tall, lofty, and imposing. In a minute or two, she and Fakir would have to face the prince, and tell them … everything.

Mytho sat behind those doors, on his throne already, probably. She hadn't seen him since earlier. Was he … offended with her surprise? Did she not respond quickly enough to his forwardness?

"Hey."

"Eh—? Gah!" She turned too quickly on her slipper and almost tipped over from the weight of the layers of fabric fluffing around her.

Fakir snorted with mild amusement, and when she regained her balance, she playfully wrinkled her nose at him.

"I don't know how you can even stand up in that dress. You can probably fit five of you in there," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The corner of his lips curled up in a smirk.

"I'm strong now! From doing all that laundry!" She gave a swish of her gown as if to demonstrate, focusing entirely on keeping her balance this time. "Mm … Fakir? How … how are you doing?"

His smirk weakened.

"Fa—?"

The doors opened and Ahiru almost jumped right out of her slippers. She straightened herself and patted the wrinkles from her gown, trying to appear as ladylike as possible now that she would be presented to the prince again. Sweeping inside, she heard Fakir's even steps behind her and felt a little better knowing that he was right there.

It was … daunting to say the least. Beside the throne, Raetsel stood next to the man Ahiru recognized to be Karon, the kind steward and advisor to the prince. To his left, an older gentleman with warm, yellow eyes stroked his mustache, poised and observant. Knights took their places against the walls of the large hall, pristine and still as the throne room itself.

Finally, there was handsome, dignified Mytho, sitting elegantly upon his regal chair, his expression unreadable. But she could feel his pinkish eyes upon her, and she shifted under his gaze, wondering what must've been going through his mind.

His voice rang out in clear, musical tones, but leveled with a shallow form of cordiality that didn't seem his usual, genuine self when they'd first met one month ago. "Allow me to welcome you, Mister Fakir. You've met our royal housekeeper, Miss Raetsel." He gestured to her with one hand, his steady stare finally leaving Ahiru to focus solely on Fakir. "Beside her is my most trusted advisor, Karon, and my dear uncle, Mister Cecil Katz of Kunz. And, of course you must know my fiancee and future wife," he paused to pull his gaze back to Ahiru, "Lady Ahiru of Hedeby."

On instinct, Ahiru turned to Fakir, giving him a lopsided, forced smile as if to comfort him (and perhaps, garner some strength of her own).

Mytho spoke again. "My lady, come and sit by my side."

As if on cue, two servant came in from a nearby corridor and placed a plush chair beside his throne before they hurried off quietly. Stricken, Ahiru hesitated, not quite wanting to leave Fakir there in the middle of the open space where everyone could stare solely at him …

But Mytho's gaze was expectant, and she wanted so badly to forget about what happened between them earlier. Make it better. Be happy now that she was with him.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and gave Mytho a shaky smile, slowly padding over to his side. It was hard to maneuver with such a large dress, but she made it with little incident, and as soon as she was comfortably seated, she turned her smile to Fakir. Hopefully it would serve as a bit of encouragement.

If he was shaken at all, he wasn't showing it yet. He kept his expression firm and unchanging. But Ahiru knew him well enough to see the dark shadows under his eyes and the heaviness in his shoulders.

Mytho took her hand in his and held it there on his armrest. His fingers were cold.

Breaking the silence, Karon took a step forward, facing Fakir directly. "Now that introductions have been made, it's best that we simply jump right into this."

Fakir straightened.

"Are you or are you not the creature that kidnapped Lady Ahiru one month ago?"

Ahiru moved to speak, but she felt Mytho's hand clench around hers and she paused long enough for Fakir to answer before she could.

"Yeah, that was me," he said evenly, his eyes never leaving Karon's.

"You must realize how grievous this crime is, to take the fiancee of our prince. Though Lady Ahiru has requested your release and freedom, under the laws of Vineta, this cannot go unpunished."

This time, Ahiru _did_ speak—perhaps out of turn—and certainly not in the way she would have a month ago. "B-But, he _saved_ me! He … there were reasons, I promise—I assure you, Your Highness!" She turned in her seat to clench Mytho's hand atop her own, pleading with him with her eyes. In an attempt to compose herself, she took a deep breath. How would her mother handle this? How was she supposed to behave? "Mytho, he really … it's such a long story, I don't know how to begin … But Fakir shouldn't be punished, because he did rescue me and he brought me back—!"

… She trailed off, however, when Mytho snapped his gaze to her, his eyes flashing that same, strange pink hue. His fingers only tightened on hers once more.

"Mytho …"

On the other side of the room, Mr. Katz stepped forward, clearing his throat and turning a patient glance to everyone. "Perhaps it wouldn't be so unwise to listen to their story, however long it might be? Surely, Mister Fakir's intentions cannot be so ruthless if he risked execution simply to return her to your side. There are reasons for everything, surely."

Ahiru gave him a grateful smile. "It's true! There are reasons! There's a town, and this curse, with these dragons, and they needed me to—none of this was their fault, really, and he took me back because their leader wanted to do things that were—!"

They all gave her perplexed stares and she fell quiet. She was just … not good at telling stories, it seemed, and suddenly wished she could just show them what happened like Autor had done for her.

Fakir stepped forward, as if taking pity on her. "I'm from a hidden village, a good distance north of here." His words were flat and even—like the first time he told Ahiru she was going to die. "A long time ago, a curse was placed on us, and we needed her to lift it."

Mytho's thumb caressed the back of her hand as he spoke next. "What _curse_? And how did you expect Lady Ahiru to help you?"

"You saw what I turned into. We weren't always like that." With a pause, Fakir's eyes narrowed. "There's a time limit, and it's drawing close. In twenty days, we intended on conducting a ritual, and her life would be forfeit—"

A collective gasp broke out through the room at Fakir's rather blunt explanation, but Mytho's reaction squashed them all down. To everyone's shock, the prince, usually so composed and so warm, jolted to his feet, his pinkish eyes blazing and lips curling into a sneer. He dropped Ahiru's hand in that same instance. "How _dare_ you—!"

Fakir met Mytho's sneer with his own scowl, and Ahiru glanced anxiously between the two of them. "—But all of this is irrelevant, because she's here now!"

"That excuses _nothing_ ," the prince spat back, ignoring Karon's, Raetsel's, and Mr. Katz's astonishment with both of their behaviors.

Ahiru didn't know what to think. Surely, Fakir must've known better than the speak like this to the prince! And Mytho … she never expected him to have such a temper …!

"You're right," Fakir continued on, his fists clenching while he ground his teeth. "It excuses nothing, but that's not the _point_! She's still in _danger_ , even here!"

The knights reached for their swords, each taking a couple of steps toward Fakir.

Karon looked like he had enough. "That _insubordinate_ —seize him!"

Wait. _Wait_! Ahiru jumped to her feet as well, scrambling to position herself between Mytho and Fakir with her arms splayed out clumsily, her eyes wide with trepidation. "I-I wanted to stay with them!" she cried, stomping her foot.

They all froze and fell into silence, likely surprised—perhaps even appalled—by her uncouth behavior. She could even feel Fakir's stare burning into the back of her head.

Swallowing, she trembled and tried to right herself, straightening her back and lowering her gaze, blushing with shame. "I … Fakir was the one who convinced me to leave with him! He brought me there, sure, and that wasn't the best way to do things, but he only did what he thought was right! For his people! And they're really _wonderful_ people! I wanted to stay. And help them all. If I didn't help them, they'd all _vanish_! Disappear in a flash of light!"

Mytho gazed upon her, almost in dismay.

She shook her head, once again trying to plead with the prince. "I couldn't let them all disappear. But … Fakir told me that their leader wanted to do something bad after their curse was lifted. He saved me and brought me here, but they all still need help. I … Mytho, I told him that we could help him! Together!"

After a moment of silence, she heard Fakir's voice from behind her, once again carefully leveled and even. "… They're coming after us. They don't know where we are yet, but it's only a matter of time. Ahiru is safest here, but we need to be prepared for anything."

Mytho's expression looked saddened, his eyes dimming in its pink luster. Almost _hurt_. And Ahiru's heart hurt with him. Was he in pain? What was wrong? Had she overstepped some boundary, or broken some rule, or …?

Across the room, Mr. Katz cleared his throat again, looking more calm than anyone else in the hall. He stroked his mustache once more. "I think we are all in agreement that Lady Ahiru's kindness is unfathomable. If I may ask—well, I'll be frank. I _must_ ask. Why our Lady Ahiru? Why is it that _she_ possesses the life you must take?"

Ahiru's hands clenched in her skirts, and she was grateful Fakir took it upon himself to answer.

"She's the last of her bloodline Her ancestor placed this curse on us, and as his spell dictated, the only way to lift it is if his descendant's blood and life is spilled in twenty days."

"The day of the Raven Constellation's alignment," Mr. Katz observed. Raetsel, Karon, and Mr. Katz all met glances. "Who was Lady Ahiru's ancestor?"

The edge in Fakir's voice didn't go unnoticed to her. "D. D. Drosselmeyer."

Mr. Katz stroked his whisker-like mustache, yellow eyes narrowing, and Raetsel and Karon exchanged confused and significant looks.

… Was Ahiru missing something important here?

"The legendary wizard lived quite a long time ago." Mr. Katz's eyes softened somewhat. Mister Fakir, you must come from a long line of imprisonment. I feel for your ancestors."

"No," Fakir corrected, his words sharp, "he cursed _us_. Not our ancestors."

"… How old are you, Mister Fakir?"

"318 years old."

Something dawned on Mr. Katz just then, though Ahiru felt completely at a loss as to what it might've been. "… So you were _there_ ," he uttered, astounded.

"If you need to imprison me, fine," Fakir said, sounding uncomfortable and tired, "but I ask that my punishment be postponed for another twenty days. If I need to stay in a cell, I'll need writing materials, and that's all I ask. And leave Uzura and Lamp be. They're innocent in all this."

Ahiru turned to face him, her jaw going slack. "Fakir—!"

"Writing materials? What letters do you intend to write, and to whom?" Karon grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Fakir chose to ignore Ahiru's pleading stares and responded, visibly aggravated. "They're not letters. I just need to write."

"A need for writing. Stories, perhaps?" mused Mr. Katz.

That caught Ahiru's attention. She stiffened, her hands clenching into the lace of her gown, unable to handle much more of this. "Please, let him just stay as a guest! I … If you imprison him, I'll go in there, too!"

"Hey, idiot, don't—!"

She turned to Mytho, who'd been silent for a long while now, and watched as his eyebrows furrowed at her words. "He's my friend! Fakir only wants to help! And he needs help, too! We can all work together, so I _won't_ let him go to jail alone just because he cared enough to bring me home!"

Karon stepped forward, looking winded and drained. "Let us focus on our priorities. You are being pursued here by other monsters like yourself? When do you think they will arrive?" he asked, his eyes training on Fakir.

"I can't say for sure. I just need to write. I can't explain it all like this."

"The more information we have, the better," countered Karon, trying to remain reasonable, "As of now, we have other concerns as well. We've received word from General Lysander's scouts—Rungholt has begun to move."

Rungholt? Ahiru remembered that name. It was a country wasn't it? The one that Mytho struggled with a month ago. What did Karon mean by _move_?

Mytho straightened and answered her unspoken question, bitterness underlying the calm of his voice. "In your absence, my lady, war has been declared against us from our neighbors in Rungholt."

She felt the blood drain from her face. _War_?

"No matter," he continued with a casual air that alarmed her, "We were prepared for this."

Mytho stood and stepped forward, only stopping when he came before Ahiru. Her first instinct was to move away, but she didn't know why she would want to. Thus, she stood her ground.

He cupped her face in his hands and gazed down into her eyes. His eyes were cloudy, swirling, and pinkish again, and the warmth that she felt in his presence before utterly dissipated.

When he first embraced her upon their first meeting, she wanted nothing more than to be in his arms, always. And now, she wanted quite the opposite.

Was it him? Was it _her_?

"I believe that now is a time for celebration," he whispered with all too much sweetness, "My princess has returned to my side. We should be _thanking_ Mister Fakir, and as I said before, he is our honored guest. And on this occasion, do you not think we should hold a ball in my fiancee's honor?" His eyes never left hers, and her hands began to shake.

"… Y-your Highness," she heard Karon stutter, "do you not think it unwise to have such merriment at a time like this?"

"Nonsense. Now is the _best_ time. We must remember to keep our hopes alive during our strife." He brushed his thumb along her chin, and she shivered. "Don't you agree, my lady?"

In the corner of her eye, Karon, Lysander, and Raetsel stood in shock while Mr. Katz stared on, sober and serious.

"Miss Raetsel, please make the necessary arrangements for a gala."

She hesitated. "Your Highness—!"

Mr. Katz gave her a pointed look and a nod.

"… Yes, Your Highness."

They were really all going along with this? Ahiru found her voice, finding the courage to tug at his sleeve. "M-Mytho, a ball? Right now? I don't—that's not— _ah_!"

He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "You are by my side. How could anything go wrong?

"Now, shall I escort you to your quarters? You must need your rest after such a rough landing." He sent a brief, sharp glance over to Fakir behind her, and she swallowed the lump in her throat.

That was when Raetsel approached them, politely bowing her head to Mytho. "Ah, Your Highness, allow me to escort Lady Ahiru to her room. Surely, she will need assistance in preparing for bed." The housekeeper stepped forward, almost between them. "It is only proper, after all."

Mytho appeared particularly displeased, but said no more.

Obediently, Ahiru followed Raetsel toward the grand doors, glancing over her shoulder. Watching her go, the prince bowed his head to her, and it was then that she noticed the way he reached up and scratched with fidgeting fingers at his chest.

And then there was Fakir—forlorn in a way she'd never seen before.

The last thing she saw in the throne room before the doors shut behind her was rather peculiar: Mr. Katz approaching Fakir and whispering something into his ear.

* * *

"The dragon creature has agreed to meet with us, though he insisted that he take the night for himself to write."

Karon, Raetsel, and Lysander gathered around the large table in the library once more, all eyes on Mr. Katz. The scholar flipped through a few pages of his selected tome, though he already knew what he was looking for.

Karon pinched the bridge of his nose. "So we will speak with him in private tomorrow, then. It seems that his writing is significant to him."

"It is significant to all of us," Mr. Katz corrected, finding a particular page and holding it open for the others to see, "As I remembered, it is said that D. D. Drosselmeyer worked miracles, but none so extravagant and so mysterious as his ability to change reality itself."

Raetsel shook her head in disbelief. "I'd heard those stories, but surely they were just myths!"

"The wizard attained this skill toward the end of his life—the ability to write stories into truth. That was three hundred years ago. Just a year or so before his death."

"And you think that the dragon creature can do such a thing? And Lady Ahiru … she is likewise connected? All of this is connected?" she marveled. Feeling lightheaded, she lowered herself into the nearest chair.

Karon, likewise, felt rather faint and sat as well. "Rungholt, Lady Ahiru, the dragon creature, this wizard, our prince—this is all too much."

"We were missing something," Mr. Katz muttered, stroking his mustache, "but I think this dragon may have the answers we seek. For now, we must cater to Siegfried's needs. We'll have him focus solely on the ball, and on his fiancee."

"No," Raetsel insisted, tucking a long lock of hair behind her ear, "we cannot. Knowing that he is not our prince … how can we allow him to be near Lady Ahiru? _He_ wouldn't want that."

"He needs to keep his attention away from the war. With his judgement so impaired, he cannot be relied on to make such drastic decisions. Certainly, no harm will come to Lady Ahiru, but she may serve as some reminder of who he used to be. Perhaps she can help him come to his senses. After all," he paused, a smile touching his lips, "what is happier than the comfort of a future wife, _nyah_ ~?"

"... Not only that," Lysander added, gruff and nervous, "but this dragon is bringing with him a whole other mess of—there's more of them—aye, I don't think His Highness can handle much more. And, if I may say so, I'm don't know if I trust this dragon in the first place. Showing up after kidnapping the duchess, with a writing ability that could be that … powerful."

Karon nodded. "It's settled, then. I'll handle the prince's direct duties. Miss Raetsel, see to it that the ball is the grandest that our budget can afford. General, the war is now in your hands. Mr. Katz, if I may request this of you, please look into … everything that has transpired.

"As for the dragons, let us hope that this Fakir can be trusted, and that he will share their weaknesses with us."

* * *

They bombarded Ahiru from both sides.

"Oh, my lady, my _lady_! Who are you going to pick?! Who, _who_?!"

"Goodness gracious~! The fair, dashing, pristine, angel of a prince—~!"

"—What a _dreamboat_ ~!"

"—who can give you the perfect fairy tale life~?! Or the dark, brooding, devilishly handsome vagabond—~!

"—Such a _heartthrob_ ~!"

"—who is full of danger and mystery~?!"

"One is the prince you've always dreamed of, who cares for you and fell for you at first sight, your lifetime future husband and defender of his queen to the death, bathed in light and goodness! And the other, your dragon, your knight, the darkness that protects you from the shadows?!"

"Pique, oh, Pique, you _must_ know what this means~!"

"Oh, Lilie, of _course_ I know what this means!"

They threw their arms around Ahiru's neck in a strangling embrace, crying out together, "There's going to be a _battle_ ~!"

She would've protested to all of it, but she couldn't breathe at the moment.

They only had an afternoon, and they'd already romanticized everything about Ahiru's dire predicament. It was nothing like that. Mytho was her promised prince, but he was different for some reason—almost frightening—and she needed to figure it out so they could finally be happy together! And Fakir was her friend, and nothing at all like they thought he was!

There was going to be a battle, but not between Mytho and Fakir.

In fact, there might be several battles on the horizon.

Finally, they released her, and she gasped for breath, sprawling out onto her plush bedding in her nightgown. They lounged on either side of her, still giggling and eyes dancing.

"N-None of it is really like that …" she murmured, staring up at the canopy of her bed.

Pique clicked her tongue. "Oh, it is. You might not think it, but it is!"

Lilie rolled over dramatically. "Two men, vying for the attention of little Ahiru~! Oh, they must not know just how clumsy and awkward and small and how awful of a dancer and how bad of a student you are~!"

Oh, how she wished her bedding would just swallow her whole.

Thankfully, they finally left her to sleep, bidding her a fond and rather peppy goodnight. They should've known that sleep would only escape her.

She'd grown so used to that small cot in that hut down in Wyvern. The fresh breeze that blew in from her open window startled her. The overall comfort of her room made her oddly uncomfortable. She knew that Uzura and Lamp were safe in Fakir's room with him, but she sorely missed the little girl's company and the lady bug's soft glow.

Slowly, she gathered her thin sheet around her shoulders for extra warmth, her nightgown rather thin for the cool, evening air. Padding over to the window, she sat on the bench in front of it, and stared out into the view of the gardens. The sky was clear, the stars scattered across the sky in a way she could only dream about in Wyvern.

So much happened today. So much to worry about now …

She reached up to press her fingers against her pendant, still heavy around her neck.

The extensive gardens were pretty, even at night. Lined with lanterns, they remained well-lit, and the soft hum of the fountain reached her even from her height a few stories up. Bordered by a trail that led into the woods, the waters of a crystalline pond glistened beautifully. In the distance, the large lake that surrounded the Grand Chateau perfectly reflected the night, the starry expanse sprawled out across both sky and water. She desperately wanted to see everything in the daytime. The night only reminded her of the sun flowers in Wyvern.

Maybe … if Mytho was feeling better, he'd accompany her. Yes, maybe he was just having a bad day. And then she'd be able to cheer him up, and they could be together—fight this war together, and help Fakir and everyone in Wyvern, together.

... Then, movement caught her eye. She straightened and squinted, no longer used to the darkness, trying to make out the figure that stepped out into the gardens heading straight for the woods by the pond.

The figure flipped through some pages of paper in his hands, and that was when she realized it was Fakir.

… He couldn't sleep either?

She bit her lip and leaned forward, trying to see what he was doing. But he entered into the small bit of woods on the castle grounds, and she couldn't make out anything more. Curious and restless, she stepped away from the window and gathered her sheet tighter around her. It would be improper to wander around in just her nightgown, but the servants had gone to bed and the knights wouldn't bother her. That, and Fakir didn't really care for clothes and other such things.

She picked up the candleholder from her bedside table, the tiny wick flickering gently with the tiny flame. It would have to do—she didn't want to wake up Lamp just for this.

Empty and cold, the usually grand and inviting halls of the Grand Chateau now stretched on with imposing largeness and length, and she felt so small with her tiny slippers clapping gently onto the polished ground. She didn't feel unsafe, as the knights still patrolled, giving her curious, but not unkind glances as she passed, but she did feel quite intimidated.

At one point, she got lost, and inquired from the nearest knight as to how to reach the gardens. She recognized him vaguely—Sir Demetri, the young one who freed Fakir from his shackles earlier.

"Down this hall, and left, my lady," he said, bowing his head and avoiding looking directly at her (due to her state of undress, no doubt), "Will you be needing an escort?"

"No, it's okay! I'll be fine!" She smiled and bowed her head, clutching her sheet tighter over her shoulders. "Thank you, Sir Demetri!"

He blinked in surprise at her recognition, and grinned as she took her leave. Now more confident in her direction, she picked up her pace.

Finally, she found the glass doors that led out into the gardens and pushed them open, the cool air greeting her and snuffing out the candle. That was fine, she supposed, considering the lanterns strewn strategically about the gardens, so she placed the candleholder on a nearby bench and kept moving. With a small shiver, she stepped out into the grass, trying to orient herself into Fakir's general direction. The gardens were much larger now that she was actually in them, rows and rows of flower bushes, tiled patios, benches, and statues surrounding her. Finding the biggest landmark—the swan fountain—she smiled and turned to where she knew Fakir headed off to into the well-groomed set of lemon trees.

It wasn't hard to find him. He sat at the base of a tree, quite close to the edge of the pond. Fireflies danced over the surface, the hum of crickets and frogs almost soothing to her. She smiled and made to step out from behind the trees to greet him.

But the ashes, the charred remains of whatever pages he'd brought out here with him, caught her eye, scattered beside him, burned by his flame.

Her lips parted and her heart hurt when she saw the telltale rivulets escaping from the corners of his eyes. He furiously wiped them away as the tears came, but she already saw it.

Her bottom lip trembled as she remained there, at a loss.

She knew what it was like to not know what to do. In Wyvern, when faced with her difficult destiny, she sat and cried, moped and denied, wavered endlessly. Fakir, in turn, must've felt as alone as she did.

Her emotions caught up with her, knowing that she and Fakir were the same. Now, she couldn't sacrifice herself, so how could she help anyone? She wasn't anything special, other than just being the descendant of Drosselmeyer. How could she save everyone— _anyone_ now? They were stuck between the other dragons, their impending fate, and war on top of everything.

Maybe he was thinking the same thing about himself. Maybe they both thought themselves useless.

For all of the things that had happened to her this past month and this past day, Fakir still suffered the most. Because he was her friend—he cared about her. And he also cared about everyone in Wyvern. Fakir cared more about _everything_ than anyone else.

And seeing him so sad made her heart ache like it never had before.

She wandered forward, her footsteps rustling into the grass and alerting him to her presence. Caught off guard, Fakir reached up, furiously wiping at his eyes with a grunt. "Idiot. What're you—? Go back to bed."

She didn't have the eloquence to comfort him with words—she wasn't like her mother, no matter how she tried. She couldn't be there for someone, or feel for another person like Hermia could. She couldn't heal him, or see into his thoughts, or do anything of importance.

She could only do what Ahiru could do.

Dropping to her knees beside him at the base of the tree, she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his shoulder, her hands coming up to curl around his upper arm in a tiny embrace.

"... What are you doing, idiot?" he muttered, weak and half-hearted.

Her bottom lip continued to tremble, the hurt in her chest bubbled forth, and her own tears began to fall.

"H-Hey."

Her hold around his arm only tightened as her shoulders began to quiver from the force of her quiet sobs. He needed to know that he wasn't alone. That they were the same. A team. She was no Hermia, but they felt the same, didn't they?

That was why she was crying. That was why he was crying.

Her breath caught in her throat when she felt his other arm curl around the back of her shoulders, pulling her closer.

Fakir's hug was … warm.

Her sobs subsided and they fell into silence, but for the frogs, crickets, and fireflies buzzing about. She glanced up, only to find him steadily gazing down at her. His eyes were bloodshot and tear-ridden, but his expression was surprisingly soft.

Unbidden and inexplicably, she blushed.

"... I'll try to write again," he said, his thumb brushing her shoulder, "but I'll … need your help."

Together, then. She gave him a tearful, yet blinding grin. "I believe in you!"

Fakir returned her smile with a small smirk.

* * *

Deep in the woods, north of the peaceful and thriving city of Vineta, a dozen or so cloaked figures settled in around their crackling campfire, cross-legged as their teeth tore through deer meat, their eyes glued to the flickering flame in concentration. Silence reigned over the night, only broken by the chirping of crickets and the snapping of steady flames.

The loot they'd taken from those knights a month ago came to good use to their families in their hidden settlement a few miles east. Their dead had been properly honored, their food stored, their weapons a solid contribution to their growing supply, their new Pegasi giving them far more reach …

They returned to these woods, hoping that another group would yield similar results, especially now that they were prepared to face stronger knights and a surprisingly formidable prince. And they were partially right—over the past couple of weeks, knights on Pegasus-back flew overhead, as if searching for something. Possibly seeking them out for revenge.

But those knights never landed.

Instead, earlier that afternoon, they encountered something else.

Their leader drew his dark cloak closer around his form. The others in his company appeared likewise contemplative and pensive, and he knew the reason—he knew what occupied their collective thoughts.

"That creature was an ancient one," said the woman to his right as she pulled her hood further over her head, "From eons ago."

"No. He resembled the creature, but he wasn't pure or true," the leader grunted, "A mere copy, like the child in his company."

"And the woman with them _appeared_ human, but there was something strange about her, too."

The rest of the bandits glanced up, looking upon their leader with trepidation. With a deep breath, he stared into the fire, the lines on his forehead deepening as his gray brows furrowed.

"It means that the world is about to change again, and with it, the peace that has reigned."

They fell into silence, a blanket of understanding covering them all. Though they lived as rogues and thieves for the greater part of their history, the balance of their realm began to shift, and so it was time to emerge from the comfort of their shadows and reveal their true purpose as Watchers.

After three centuries of silence, the Bookmen Bandits needed to act once more.


	14. Rhapsody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was only when the sky lightened somewhat, the dark hues melting into the early morning, the stars twinkling their last, and the hum of fireflies giving way to the chirping of robins, that they stood up and returned to the castle in silence. The shadows of night receded, and with it, his security. His hiding place. In the coming dawn, he felt suddenly exposed.
> 
> Oh, Fae help him.
> 
> She saw him cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to thank mommacomms, blueberryhope, ampharos98, zerozeroren, lemolunes, and loeise on tumblr for all the art! If you're reading, you all gave the story so much exposure, and I just can't thank you enough. -; Readers, please check out their tumblr blogs! They're incredible, talented artists!
> 
> And as always, readers, thank you for taking the time and the patience to read. You all are the best and I owe you the world.

Fakir reached up to clutch his shoulder, still warm from where she'd rested her cheek.

Grumbling under his breath, he stared numbly at the door and bit back a grimace as the knights that lined the halls and guarded the entrance to the chamber scrutinized him head to toe. Leave it to these royals to make him _wait_ after summoning him here at such an early hour.

… Not that he'd gotten any sleep at all.

He didn't know how long he and Ahiru sat there, the young duchess entangled around his limb while they waited for their eyes to dry. Other than his humiliating display and his embarrassment at being seen, the night wasn't … unpleasant.

The cool air was a comfort above ground, the night skies vast and calm, shining in a scatter of twinkling beads stretching across a dark blue canopy—so different from the jagged edges and harsh lines of a dirt ceiling and wayward rocks and roots. The new atmosphere soothed him, alien as it was, and Ahiru's presence kept him grounded in ways he couldn't possibly fathom.

The fireflies reminded him of lady bugs, however. Despite himself and despite the villagers' ire and distrust of him, he missed his underground hut, the glowing flower fields, his sister's smirks and Autor's pompousness. The scent of Freya's fresh tea, Hermia's potato stew warm in his belly, the echo of Uzura's happy drumming across the expanse of emptiness.

Not that they'd wanted him back. Not after what he'd done.

His jaw clenched. Rejection underground was certainly better than what was offered here, though. Cold, white walls, snide and suspicious whispers, and all the attention he could do without.

Ostracized in Wyvern. An outsider in Vineta.

But in Ahiru's arms, he finally felt at home.

And the thought made him feel wretched, because the last time he felt such all-encompassing warmth, she gifted him with shimmering ink and an encouraging grin. It was always _Ahiru_ who made him feel like this—whatever _this_ was.

It was only when the sky lightened somewhat, the dark hues melting into the early morning, the stars twinkling their last, and the hum of fireflies giving way to the chirping of robins, that they stood up and returned to the castle in silence. The shadows of night receded, and with it, his security. His hiding place. In the coming dawn, he felt suddenly _exposed_.

Oh, Fae help him.

She saw him cry.

Sure, they'd come to an understanding, and he left their encounter with more confidence and more courage than before, but she _saw him cry._

Thankfully, she refrained from bringing attention to it, content with padding along beside him as he escorted her to her bedchambers. He pointedly ignored the curious glances of patrolling knights and _definitely_ avoided eye contact with Ahiru for the rest of their trek.

Just before she slipped through the door, she tugged on his sleeve, though he still refused to meet her gaze. "Together, no matter what!" she said in hushed tones, brightened by a quiet and happy determination. "Good night—oh, I guess it's morning now, huh? Try to get some sleep!"

He shrugged one shoulder, keeping his eyes to the polished tile beneath him. "Not likely. I have a—well, there's something I have to do soon."

"... Is it about what Mr. Katz whispered to you yesterday?"

Surprised, his eyebrows rose. Ahiru, for all her clumsy antics, squawking stutters, and spacey tendencies, never let him forget how remarkably intuitive she could be.

He fought back a small smirk at the thought, stricken with some inexplicable sense of pride. Finally, he lifted his gaze to meet her eyes.

"Yeah," he answered honestly, though a burning discomfort welled up in his chest at his next words, "Make sure that you don't mention anything about it to your prince." When her eyebrows lifted in concern, he bit the inside of his cheek and guiltily added, "This is at Mr. Katz's behest. Better stick to it, since you're in the know."

Her hands anxiously tangled into the fabric of her nightgown and his heart wrenched at the sight. "O-Okay."

"I'm sorry."

"Eh? For what?"

"Making you lie to him."

The smile that spread across her cheeks soothed the strange entanglement of emotions that whirled around in a confusing mess in his belly. "Mm … no, it's not you! I'm just worried, that's all. I don't know why they'd want to keep something from him, so …"

"... I'll let you know what happens at the meeting."

"Eh? You will?"

"I just said so, didn't I?" He rolled his eyes. Then, he started off along the hallway and waved his hand in a casual farewell. "Get some sleep."

"... Yeah!" He heard her bright smile in her voice. "You, too, when you can!"

Her sentiment, well-meaning as it was, would go to waste. He'd never get the opportunity to catch even a wink of slumber.

As soon as he entered the grand stairs that connected one wing of guestrooms to the other, a knight accosted him in the middle of the steps, her long face firming into a sneer. "Mister Fakir," she addressed formally beneath her sarcastic air, "you've been summoned by—"

"I know." The lack of sleep suddenly crept upon him, his eyelids heavy with tiredness (but moreso with the dread of actually having to talk more with these royals). "Lead the way."

Scoffing, the knight straightened in her armor and turned her protracted nose toward the ceiling. "I think _not_ , Mister Fakir. I will escort you to your chambers so that you may change into a more appropriate attire."

He bit back a groan. The nightshirt and loose trousers were far more comfortable than the other clothes he'd been given, and he sorely missed his rags from Wyvern. But the knight, Dame Annerina, continued on pestering in her incessantly _bossy_ manner, and he was much too tired to bother with arguing.

On the way, he made sure to pass by Uzura's room, the child slumbering and comfortable in a cocoon of the warmest blankets she'd ever buried herself into. In that, he was satisfied enough to leave her be until later.

And that was how he found himself staring blankly at the door to a smaller audience chamber, rather far from the throne room of the day before. Tired. Waiting. Wrapped up in a constricting vest and tight pants.

He could've been writing, too.

Damned royals.

Finally, the thick, wooden doors creaked open, the knights sidestepping to allow room for the prince's attendant to greet him. Dressed sharply even at this early hour, Karon gave Fakir a quick once-over before lowering his head in a polite bow. "Thank you for coming. I understand this must've been a strange request."

Fakir merely shrugged and stepped into the chamber after Karon. A stark contrast from the white marble, tall pillars, and intricate stained glass of the throne room, this hall sported no such grandeur. The walls were of a dark gray stone, a red wooden table sitting in the center of the limited area. A map, sprawled out over the surface, was dotted with miscellaneous markers, lines, and symbols.

… It'd been a long time since he'd seen an actual map of the world. Even now, he found his eyes drifting to the valley where Wyvern rested beneath the ground, untouched and far from such markers .

He smirked. Labeled across this particular expanse were the words, "Untrodden Lands."

Finally, he glanced about the room as Karon took a seat into one of the carved chairs. Beside him sat the important figures Fakir had been introduced to the day before: the general (whose name escaped him), Raetsel, Karon, and Mr. Katz. It seemed that they were of the highest ranks below the prince himself.

… And as expected, Prince Siegfried was absent from their small party.

Without awaiting an invitation, Fakir slipped into the chair across from them, once again before them as if on trial. Maybe he'd have to get used to this.

Karon spoke once more. "Again, thank you for taking the time to meet with us."

Fakir shrugged in reply. "Your prince isn't here. I guess you were serious about that." He pointedly met each of their gazes directly.

"Circumstances as of late have … forced our hand."

"So, I take it this isn't about your party-planning."

Fakir almost smirked at the apprehension lining their foreheads, each looking more anxious than the last. Some advisors they were, allowing a prince to foolishly organize a ball in the middle of their apparent distress.

He imagined Prince Siegfried differently. Wiser, perhaps.

Mr. Katz fought down his concern and stroked his whiskers inquisitively. "I suppose I'll begin with the obvious. Yesterday, you claimed to be … well, quite old. Three hundred, you said?"

"And eighteen."

"Three hundred and eighteen. And this is the nature and result of your curse?"

"I said all this before. Yes," Fakir snapped, not bothering to hide his impatience.

The prince's uncle remained undaunted. "You've requested for some writing materials."

"And I got them, so I should be getting back to that." Rather than indulging in this redundant back-and-forth with people he hardly knew or respected.

"Curious that you seem so adamant about continuing your work. Why, may I ask?"

Crossing his arms and leaning back into the solid wood of the chair's backrest, Fakir rolled his eyes. He was going to make it _keenly apparent_ that this entire arrangement displeased him.

It seemed he wouldn't be released quite so easily, however.

At Fakir's stubborn silence, Mr. Katz reached down somewhere beneath the table, and with a grunt, revealed a large tome, thick and old with a crooked spine. It landed upon the wood with a dull ' _thud'_ as Mr. Katz flipped to a marked page. "It is said," the scholar continued, "that the legendary wizard, D. D. Drosselmeyer, took on a new, mysterious act later on in his career."

Fakir felt the color drain from his face.

"Stories say it was a power he valued greatly. He worked magnificent and terrible acts: turning girls into ducks, rendering young men utterly emotionless, trapping people into stories and changed reality itself.

"Some say it led to his demise. I wonder, could your desire to write have anything to do with this?"

Fakir's jaw clenched, cold shivers pricking at his skin, his eyebrow twitching.

To think that monster made more of a name for himself using the powers he violently ripped away from him had Fakir reeling in his seat. His fingertips dug into the armrests, creaking the wood. He spoke from between clenched teeth.

"Just because I want to write, doesn't mean—"

"Could you have learned such a thing from him?"

Fakir slammed his fist onto the table. The sudden movement and the ensuing rattle of the table shifting startled the other occupants in the room, his body spasming and eyes sharpening …

He grit his teeth, settling his nerves before it was too late to stop a transformation. Not here. Definitely not now.

He thought of Ahiru, the warmth of her cheek against his shoulder, and his muscles began to relax.

It was only a few moments of silence later before he felt the throb of his knuckles, the shock of the impact shooting to the bone. Slowly, he withdrew his hand and cradled it, discreetly running his thumb over the bruising skin.

"Mr. Katz," he heard Raetsel murmur over the quiet, "please. He's just a boy."

"A three-hundred-year-old dragon-boy," corrected the general, shifting in his armor and anxiety dripping from his words.

Karon stood from his chair and wandered closer to Fakir, circling the table with his hands behind his back. "... I suppose Mr. Katz was right in assuming you do have a history with the wizard. And his abilities. We only wish to—"

Fakir cut him off, his words deep, rumbling, and strained. "Unless you have a way to lift this damned curse without hurting Ahiru, then _don't_ bring up that monster to me. Haven't I told you enough yesterday?"

The advisor sighed and continued on. "In light of all this, we cannot allow you to write freely in the Grand Chateau. If you do have these powers, however you may have come across them, how are we to know what sorts of tales you are spinning?" Karon's voice lightened somewhat. "We can compromise. You may write with supervision. But only if you answer our questions."

Supervision? Like a caretaker to a child? Perhaps, had Fakir been in a more reasonable mood, he'd see the logic in such an order, but as it was, he planned on making this as difficult for them as possible. Bitterly, Fakir scoffed, still rubbing his knuckles. "Why don't you just read your books on the _legendary_ wizard? I'm sure there are enough tales of his mysticism and wonderment."

"With the war on the horizon—"

"I have nothing to do with the war you've gotten yourselves into." He glared up at Karon, rising to his feet to meet the advisor's gaze head-on. "I'm only here to protect Ahiru and buy some time before—"

"On the contrary," Mr. Katz interjected, "you've said yourself that the dragons may be drawn here due to your presence and Lady Ahiru's flight from their clutches. You've involved us into your conflict by taking our future queen in the first place, and now you are undoubtedly involved in ours."

Aggravated, Fakir went silent.

"… And we have reason to believe that our stories are more entwined than we thought. Perhaps from the very beginning."

"What reason?"

All eyes turned to Raetsel. After taking a deep breath, she began, "I witnessed something during the Rungholtan prince's stay in the Grand Chateau. His attendant …" She trailed off, taking pause as she tried to gesture with her hands. "… There was a ritual of some sort. Candles, rose petals—strewn about in a pattern. Prince Femio was present in the room as well."

"Aye," the gruff general agreed, "And Rungholt rose to power quickly. Too quickly. They have men, resources, money that they didn't before. A particularly sudden interest in Vineta, too, from what I hear."

Mr. Katz leaned back on his chair, staring down at the tome thoughtfully. "We believed it to be possible that Prince Femio could have some relation to Drosselmeyer."

Fakir snorted in reply, smirking wryly. "If only. Ahiru's the only one left of his bloodline. If there was anyone else, we would've known."

He made certain during Ahiru's stay underground that she was truly the only living blood descendant to Drosselmeyer. Any other option would've been … better.

"The timing is convenient as well," Mr. Katz muttered, leaning his elbows onto the table, "In a matter of days—nineteen, I believe—you and your own will feel the ultimate effects of your curse. This same year, Rungholt miraculously gained the advantage on us, and their armies march across the continent as we speak. We expect their full advance to be completed in … how long did you say, General Lysander?"

"Aye, we assumed two? Maybe three weeks?"

Karon nodded. "It could all be coincidence. Mr. Katz is convinced that it isn't."

Truly, Fakir knew better than to think _anything_ involving Drosselmeyer could be just a coincidence. But how did they know? Why did they all go through this much trouble for a hunch? Theorizing and digging in on a wizard who, for all they knew, had been dead for so long? There had to be something they weren't telling him. Something else at stake.

As he considered this, Karon lowered into a chair beside Fakir, his elbows on his knees. "We only wish to understand Drosselmeyer more. And perhaps, as someone who has met him before his demise, we'd like to learn as much as we can. That, and with the growing … ahem, dragon problem—"

Dragon _problem_? Fakir scowled.

Karon grimaced at the dragon's glare. "We may need to know how to comba— _defend_ ourselves against them. On top of everything else. Just in case they come for you or Lady Ahiru. Give us the information we need, and we'll trust you."

Vineta and Rungholt. Ahiru and his family. Now Vineta and his family with Ahiru caught in between. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt isolated, torn, targeted by these people who wanted to _understand_ , and yet, didn't seem to _get_ it. Hell, Fakir didn't seem to get it, either. They made everything far more complicated than it had to be. What more was there? What were the missing pieces to this damned puzzle? His weary gaze swept across the room over these seemingly important figures and—

—the missing pieces. The missing person. The one who was supposed to be the _most_ important.

Fakir followed up with a hunch of his own. "This seems like the sort of discussion that your prince should be a part of."

When the four others collectively paled, grim expressions falling upon them, Fakir knew he'd found the crucial detail they'd kept from him.

Karon spoke with carefully selected words. "… His Highness has been compromised due to the stress of his situation."

Stressed? Fakir hardly believed _that_.

Raetsel leaned forward, the determination in her eyes affirming that she would be more upfront about this than the others. "For the sake of our prince …"

"Miss Raetsel, can we trust—?"

"Karon, please." After another beat, she turned her attention back to Fakir, Mr. Katz's eyes gentle and supportive in her direction. "I feel His Highness has been directly affected by these rituals that I saw. His behavior, his manner, the way he speaks and treats others … I honestly think he may be under … unnatural changes from Montand's spells."

If the prince had truly been so compromised and in such ways, it explained their desperation for a solution.

But that wasn't what caught Fakir's attention.

"... Montand?"

"Yes. Prince Femio's valet."

This itch in the back of Fakir's mind couldn't be ignored. The sneaking chill that permeated from his neck to his shoulders and down his spine persisted, and for once, Fakir did _not_ want to be right.

His lips parted, voice weaker than it had been all morning. "I'll … you want to know everything I know, right? I'll tell you what happened, but I don't know much more of him outside of our curse." After all, Autor was the one who admired him the most. Ironically, he missed Autor's pompous presence then now than ever. "As far as the dragons go, you leave them to me. You won't _touch_ them."

Mr. Katz lifted his chin, his eyes respectful and observing, while the others likewise gave Fakir their full attention.

"… Three centuries ago, the wizard came upon our village. He and his protege, _Monty_ , stayed with us for two weeks. Until the night of the Festival of the Summer Moon …"

* * *

Autor was a man of history. An observer of days long past. Born to remember what transpired before, to make way for a better tomorrow. Certainly, he was fully capable of seeking out specific events, even looking into old mysteries that have fallen into the depths of time, forever buried from memory.

But playing hide-and-seek with two escapees from something that happened two days ago?

He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, squinting down at his blank page in the flickering candlelight. Nothing. He found _nothing_ of Fakir, Uzura, and the very crucial sacrifice needed to take back their very lives!

His cheek still stung from where Raven struck him, a painful reminder of his current failures.

The event was simply too recent, and Autor had already been drained from his writings as of late. It was only a few days ago when he unearthed an old, ancient ritual to maintain their dragon forms with or without a curse. Raven was so pleased, and so full of beautiful promises for their futures above the ground.

Autor felt so important.

How had things changed this much, this quickly?

How could Fakir …?

Rubbing his eyes under his spectacles, Autor rested his forehead in his hands. He could've been comforting Rue right now. She wasn't the same since Fakir, Uzura, and the sacrifice left—not since she was forced to enact her powers for the first time in so many years. Undoubtedly, she needed someone.

Autor could've been that someone, had Raven not confined him to this.

He knew the importance, however. If that girl wasn't retrieved, their futures would be snuffed out in a flash of light. Just like that.

He watched dully as a drop of ink swelled at the tip of his quill, heavier and heavier until it plummeted with a 'plop' onto the page. The black splatter dried quickly and uselessly. Just like that.

Things were quiet in this town. Quieter than usual. Rue's dance was more powerful than they remembered, the villagers obediently awaiting orders, making little conversation, focused solely on their next course of action. Some had been sent out to the surface to search in various, random directions for hours at a time under Elder Raven's orders, and coming back only to report on nothing at all. Indeed, Fakir must have flown much farther out to hide the girl. A few hours out in the air wouldn't cut it, but wild chases in random areas would be a waste.

Autor considered taking a break and a small walk, but down here in the emptiness that was even _more_ empty than before, that would just serve to depress him further. His steps echoed more, the villagers' eyes grew dull, and Raven would be furious to see him doing anything _but_ writing.

He thought of Rue in her hut, lying in her cot, burying her face into her pillow and blaming herself for _Fakir's_ mistake.

Always, it was about Fakir.

Though he was never particularly fond of him, this was something he never _expected_ of him. To turn his back on them all was uncharacteristic.

Autor frowned and sipped at his tea, his lip curling up into grimace. Even Freya's brew tasted lifeless and stale, small, wilted leaves floating uselessly on the surface.

Focus. Focus. He needed to _focus_.

With a deep breath, he placed his cup down and spread his hands across the page, his eyes fluttering shut as he mentally sifted through the sands of time. He imagined the doorway to the outside, the dragon insignia aglow, the dust kicking up from the scuffle of steps—

His breath caught in his throat.

There. _There_ they were.

The beginnings of the memory reached him as his quill suddenly scratched with newfound vigor. A young man cradling a child to his chest; the sacrifice taking his hand as they began to ascend to the pearly grasses that graced the valley above; the white oak greeting them as the world opened up to the sky …

Autor's eyes opened, the pull of his own magic tiring him, but infusing him with some spirit and uplifting hope for the first time in the past couple of days.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Just a little more, and he'd be on their trail.

* * *

"Lady Ahiru, this is so _devious~!_ Oh, all the trouble you can get _into_ ~!"

"Relax, Lilie. She's the future queen. She can do what she wants! 'Sides, this is kinda fun! I wonder what's got into you, milady! I like it!" Pique giggled behind her hand as she and Lilie led the way through the servants' passages of the Grand Chateau.

Ahiru grinned, glancing down as Uzura swung their arms back and forth between them. Dressed simply, Ahiru and Uzura looked perfectly unassuming. Their skirts and aprons matched Pique's and Lilie's garb, their hair fastened back beneath white bonnets. Ahiru left her nose unpowdered, her freckles blotchy across her cheeks, and she braided her red locks as Rue taught her before—in one, long twist down her back. Lamp hid comfortably in the pocket of Ahiru's apron, the lady bug's makeshift cloak a handkerchief tied with ribbon under her chin.

With baskets of food and flowers cradled into the crooks of their elbows, the giggling ladies slipped behind stone corridors and set off on their little mission. Invigorated and giddy, Ahiru was pleased to find that she wasn't the least bit tired!

She allowed herself a few hours of rest after Fakir escorted her back to her bedchamber that morning, but after that, she grew restless.

There was much to do and much to consider, but she couldn't find Fakir to talk things over. She thought of seeking out Prince Siegfried and spending some time with him, but Uzura kept staring out the windows with a glittering longing in her eyes.

A different idea struck the duchess then, and she followed her whims without looking back.

It was in execution, however, that posed the challenge.

Unwilling to let Uzura's first trip into a real town for the first time in centuries be impeded by a party of knights and advisors, Ahiru knew this would have to take some planning. The castle staff seemed adamant in keeping an eye on her, considering that the last time she ventured out into town, she managed to be kidnapped right from under the prince's nose.

Who better than her two best friends to lead her, Uzura, and Lamp out into a day of fun, without any other interruptions or restrictions?

The passages (clean and well-lit, unlike the deep corridors that led down to Wyvern) wound between main rooms of the Grand Chateau, and as they passed other servants along the way, Ahiru and Uzura ducked their heads to hide their faces, stifling laughter each time. Pique and Lilie led them at a brisk pace, excitement spurring them forward.

"This is the hard part," Pique hissed under her breath, "We have to go through the dining hall out in the open, so keep. Your. Head. _Down_."

"Oh, imagine the trouble we'll get into if we're _caught_ ~!" cooed Lilie in reply as they stepped out into the lavish room. Obediently, Ahiru kept her neck arched forward, hiding her eyes with her bangs and keeping her stare glued to the ornately-patterned carpet of the dining hall.

Uzura tugged on Ahiru's sleeve. "Ducky, ducky, duck-zura! Are we breaking rules-zura?"

With a smile, Ahiru reached down to pat the top of Uzura's bonnet and comfort the restless Lamp in her pocket. "It'll be okay! Just for an afternoon! I think you'll have a lot of fun!"

"Head down," Pique muttered in warning, maneuvering them around the lengthy dining table and dodging a passing maid.

"S-Sorry."

However, Uzura tugged on her sleeve again. "Is Vineta big-zura? Are there kids like me-zura?"

"Maybe! I'm sure you're going to make lots of friends!"

"Sssshhh, Ahiru!"

"Sorry!"

"But Duck-zura! Are they gonna like me-zura?"

"Of course they'll like you!"

"What the hell are you doing?"

The three ladies and lady bug froze mid-step, the last voice deep and rumbling underlined with weariness.

"Ohhhhh! Fakir caught us-zura!"

Ahiru's gaze snapped up, her lips parting and eyes blinking cluelessly. He looked … tired. Like he hadn't taken her advice and gotten rest as soon as he could. The circles under his eyes were more pronounced now, and there was a slump in his shoulders that indicated that he carried a great weight all on his own. He held a half-eaten garlic roll in his hand, but he quickly put it onto a plate and placed it on the table, wiping his hands clean.

She forced out a laugh. "Ahahaaha, g-getting a snack, yeah? I-I-I was gonna take Uzura out to … Um—!" She gave up, deciding to just ask what was really on her mind. "Fakir, are you okay?"

"... We need to talk."

Before Ahiru could reply, Pique and Lilie released dramatic, scandalised gasps before they latched onto each of her arms.

"Oh goodness~!" Lilie squeaked, "The dreaded, final words~! I just see your tears falling right now~!"

Pique stared determinedly into Ahiru's eyes. "Guard your heart, milady! You can heal from any heartbreak, I promise!"

Fakir's eyebrow visibly twitched. "What."

"Ohhhh," Uzura interrupted, pointing behind them. "Miss Raetsel-zura!"

Indeed, the housekeeper stood with her hands on her hips, eyes twinkling with amusement and a smile playing upon her colored lips. "Well, what're you all up to?"

Once again, Pique and Lilie moved quicker than the rest of them. With jerks of their arms, they pointed past Raetsel and toward the vaulted ceiling. " _Look, it's a thingy!_ " they cried. As soon as the housekeeper's head turned away, they grabbed Ahiru around the middle while Uzura and Lamp (who'd since buzzed out of Ahiru's pocket) all but dragged Fakir by the cuffs of his sleeves into the nearby servants' passage.

Unknown to them, Raetsel bit back a laugh when Fakir's yelp of, "—the _hell_?!" echoed from within the hidden corridor before the passage slid shut.

* * *

Finally, they exited out of a secret doorway that led to a portion of the grounds that Ahiru had yet to visit. With Lilie pushing the door open, the scent of hay and feathers reached the duchess's nostrils.

The stables! Her eyes brightened as she and Uzura scampered out, their shoes crushing fresh straw beneath their soles. Pegasi ' _clop-clopped'_ obediently against the ground, large swans grooming themselves under their wings. Fakir lingered behind, his tired expression softening while he watched the animals meander around.

"Fakir-zura! What're those-zura?"

He lowered to a squat to meet her eyes, "That's a Pegasus. It's been a long, long time since we've seen them. And that's a swan."

"Ohhhhhh!"

When Ahiru approached, he lifted himself back up to a standing position, his eyes far away. "Back then, these creatures couldn't be tamed. Or at least no one tried. Seeing them saddled is … different."

She grinned. "Wanna ride one?"

With a shrug, he turned away. "Maybe one of these days. After I stop flying on my own."

Wasn't that a nice thought? Her cheeks and heart warmed. Maybe Rue would want to try it, too, one day. Freya, Hermia, and Malen as well.

Eventually, Pique and Lilie ushered Ahiru, Uzura, Lamp, and Fakir out of the stables, and into the open. The stables, thankfully, were situated on the other side of the glittering lake that surrounded the Grand Chateau, so they wouldn't be caught trying to run down the length of the long bridge across the waters. The town was only a hop-skip away.

"This isn't safe," Fakir muttered, the fatigue showing in his eyes again, "If Elder Raven figures out where I've taken you, he might—"

"I know! But … Uzura really wanted to, and she gave me those big eyes and they got all watery and … oh, you know what I mean! And you're here, too; we can handle it!"

She was mildly surprised that her words appeased him, and so they wandered into the bustle of Vineta without another thought.

This wasn't the first time she toured through the village, but it still felt new. The first time, she'd been so caught up in Mytho and the grandeur of her future with him, her eyes dazzled by the sights behind a lacy fan. This time, she drew little to no attention and blended right in, melding into the atmosphere rather than presenting herself to it.

A new perspective.

In the late morning that pushed into midday, Vineta still whirred with activity, abuzz with voices and footsteps that crowded the streets. A mule-pulled wagon parked on the roadside with baskets of fruit for sale. A librarian yelled across the cobblestone to greet a passing florist. Villagers hefted baskets of laundry and pails of water toward their homes. A nearby bell rang out, signifying the school-house's lunch hour as children eagerly poured from the building to skip rope or spin tops and play jacks on the square while nibbling on their sandwiches and potato skins.

"They rebuilt the bakery," Fakir observed beside her, quiet and pondering.

Her eyes followed his gaze. Indeed, that was the building he'd—

Ahiru gave him a comforting smile and took his hand, not noticing the heat in his cheeks as she did so. "And it looks even nicer than before. It's okay. See?" She gestured to the wide-open doors from which the scent of fresh bread and cookies permeated and the vast array of pastries displayed behind polished, glass windows. Beside the door, the beaming baker carried a tray of tiny rolls, offering them as samples to passersby.

Almost imperceptibly, Fakir's hand tightened around hers.

" _Ahem_ ," Pique chimed in, a sly twinkle in her eyes, "Are you two done checking out the sights? Come on, let's go to the middle of the square."

Lilie added as she led the way, "Oh, the town is so delightfully busy today! So much to do, how will these adorable villagers keep up~? Especially when Lady Ahiru and Mister Fakir are too enraptured in _other_ things to lend their assistance~!"

Ahiru blinked. "Eh?"

Abruptly, Fakir dropped her hand and shoved his into his pockets. Instead, he turned his attention to a bouncy, fascinated Uzura with a restless Lamp in her apron pocket. "Fakir, Fakir, Fakir-zura! Can I go play-zura?" She pointed over to where several children bounced a ball back and forth in a circle.

"It's not safe—" Fakir trailed off when Uzura's bottom lip trembled and eyes glimmered with unshed tears, "—d-don't _look_ at me like that! Argh, _fine_ , but make sure you stay within sight." At his surrender, Uzura leaped forward to wrap her arms around his waist in a quick 'thank you' before scampering off to join the circle. From Ahiru's vantage point, she could tell the other children immediately made room, and even sounded off their names in a game of introductions that she herself used to play as a little girl in Hedeby.

The first children Uzura would play with in … perhaps ever. Ahiru's eyes stung with the threat of tears, her lips curling into a watery smile. She looked to Fakir, though his expression was hard to read.

… Still, she knew him well by now. And she could see his awe, the bittersweet reflection in his green eyes, the corners of his lips twitching between a sad frown and a fond smile.

Why couldn't it have always been like this for Uzura?

Meanwhile, Pique and Lilie took it upon themselves to stand in the center of the square, planted upon the thick stone rim of the large fountain, the baskets of goods placed on the steps beneath them. "The castle sends its well-wishes!" Pique called out over the bustling crowds.

"Please partake in these gifts from your future king, in honor of the safe return of your _future queen_ ~!" Lilie announced with an air of drama.

The majority of the villagers stopped to smile, wave, and applaud as Pique and Lilie leaped from their places on the fountain, skipping over to Ahiru with her basket. "Go, go, go!" Pique encouraged her, "Go play and help us give these out!"

Ahiru accepted the basket with a laugh. "Is this a regular thing His Highness does?"

"Of course~!" Lilie replied, "He's been quite under the weather lately, though, so his dear subjects haven't had this service in quite some time~! The poor prince~!"

Fakir stiffened and his expression went stony, but Ahiru was accosted by several villagers before she could inquire as to the change in his mood.

Touring the village with Mytho was one of the best moments of her life.

But this … being among them and greeting them like she was friend rather than ruler …

Maybe she liked it just a bit better.

"Ahh, the castle's rolls are phenomenal! Please send my regards to your kitchens!" some said.

"How is Prince Siegfried faring? Hopefully better now that Lady Ahiru has returned!"

"Will you take this bag of figs to Miss Raetsel for me?"

"Please ask your gardeners how they grow such beautiful roses!"

Ahiru's heart burst. Yes, she liked this _much_ better.

When her basket ran empty, she placed it into a pile with Pique's and Lilie's (and the assortment of gifts for the castle from the villagers) and followed her maids' leads in seeking out assistance where they could. Pique agreed to help sweep the school-house's porch and Lilie read (raher dramatically) stories to some of the children. Ahiru scanned around the general area, wanting to stay close to Fakir and Uzura. Her eyes came across an elderly woman hunched over a washbin full of soapy water and soaked cloth.

_Rue hated laundry._

… She missed her.

Padding over to the woman, Ahiru bent forward and placed her hands on her knees with a grin. "Um! Hello! Do you want me to finish that up for you?"

"Oh, goodness!" came the woman's flustered, yet happy reply, "normally, I'd politely refuse, but it is a rather warm day and my back is bothering me lately …"

"Ah, please, let me! You should go rest, ma'am!"

Thankful, the woman stood from her stool and hobbled inside of her home to fetch Ahiru fresh lemonade for her trouble. The duchess set to work in the now-familiar motions of scraping the fabric against the washboard.

There wasn't much left of it to do. Idly, she let her hands knead the cloth subconsciously while her eyes wandered toward Uzura and Fakir. The little girl sat among a group of other children, enthralled by three spinning tops. Fakir watched from some distance away, looking less tired than he had before.

Her smile widened. Surely, once everything was over, if they could save everyone … Mytho would let those from Wyvern come to live here in Vineta, right? It would be nice to be able to see them all this happy and carefree, out in the sunshine, even after she was married and crowned queen.

… If she'd be a good queen in the first place.

She felt more at ease just like this, honestly.

After a while, she stood and reached for some clothespins and made to hang the sheet she'd just finished washing. Lifting to the tips of her toes and hopping with unladylike clumsiness, she struggled to reach the clothesline, the tips of her fingers barely brushing the cord with every bounce.

Then, it lowered, tugged down by someone much taller than herself. "Having trouble?" Fakir asked, his tone light.

She stuck out her tongue, but gratefully threw the sheet over the clothesline and adjusted the fold. "Ha-ha!" Pinning one corner, she glanced over to him. "How's Uzura? Is she having fun?"

"... Yeah."

The look that crossed his features was easy for her to read. After all, she'd seen what Wyvern used to be like. He must've been thinking about back then. What they used to be. "One day," she said, giving him a tiny smile.

"... One day."

Yes, he definitely looked less tired now. Though he still sported the dark shadows beneath his eyes, his green irises glimmered with renewed hope—like fresh grass in spring.

Then, he smirked, and released the clothesline.

" _Gyah!_ " Ahiru squeaked, the cord jerking upward and out of reach with a sharp bounce. "Y-You—!" With a playful glare, she stomped toward the washbin, picked up a small, soaked washcloth, and chucked it in his direction.

It slapped wetly onto his face.

Falling into a fit of giggles, Ahiru bent forward and hugged her stomach, tears in her eyes and delighted pains in her sides. When she heard a splash, however, she straightened, her jaw dropping as Fakir gathered up a rather thick shirt from the washbin, balled it up into a soaked, dripping ball, and smirked again, rivulets of water running down from his face and chin.

But before he could hurl the wad of laundry in her direction, a familiar, childlike cry echoed from a few feet away. "No _mercy_ -zura!"

" _Chaaaaaarge!_ " they cried, six children swarming around Fakir's legs and latching playfully to his limbs.

"W-Wha— _hey_!"

"It's okay, Duck-zura! We'll save you, Duck-zura!"

"Whose side are you on?!"

Ahiru couldn't help it. She collapsed onto the stool, snorting with abandon and holding her sides.

Yes. One day.

* * *

They returned to the stables as the sun sank steadily toward the horizon, pinks and yellow streaks painted through clear blues. Pique and Lilie giggled incessantly to one another, Uzura gushed to Lamp about her adventures, and Ahiru and Fakir were quiet, but optimistic.

She didn't forget that there were things to discuss, and she was more than curious as to what Fakir and Mr. Katz must've talked about. But she certainly didn't want to ruin this happy mood. Not when the past month or so had been so fraught with everything but.

They could talk later. Fakir still hadn't slept, and Uzura was getting hungry.

Creeping through the servants' passages, Ahiru didn't bother trying to hide her face anymore (what good would that do, considering she'd already been out and about and still no one recognized her anyway).

It was only when the group was approached in the dining hall that they stopped, Pique and Lilie immediately dipping down into low curtsies.

Before them stood Prince Siegfried, dressed in his fine, blue tunic and ruffled collar as usual. And it was only when his gaze met hers did Ahiru realize her state of dress. Soapy water clinging to her hem, soil on her apron, her unpowdered nose … Her heart clenched at her inadequacy, especially in the presence of his dignity and comeliness, and she bent into a hesitant curtsy as well.

His pinkish eyes remained steady and unmoving—unable to be read, even as he scanned her company and lingered on Fakir (who didn't know that he had to bow).

"Fine evening to you, Miss Pique, Miss Lilie," he greeted with easy refine, "I see you've given a personal tour to our honored guests."

They didn't lift their heads. "W-We're sorry, Your Highness!" Pique replied, "I-It's just—well, it's been a long time since we went to town with your gifts!"

"No matter. Run along, now. You are dismissed for the evening."

The tottered off, sending significant glances to Ahiru, Lilie's voice echoing into her mind: _There's going to be a battle~!_

"Lady Ahiru," he began, reaching for her hand. She allowed him to take it despite how inappropriately dressed she was, bashful and flustered when his lips pressed to her knuckles. "I've been searching for you. Shall we take a stroll together? We can share the sunset, hm?"

"Tha-That sounds nice—err—lovely! That would be lovely! May I change first, or …?"

"No, _now_ would be preferable." He reached out to tuck her hand around his elbow and lead her away.

… Until she felt a tug on her apron. Lamp clung to the fabric in concern, and Uzura looked quizzically up at the prince, wide eyes blinking owlishly. And Fakir … looked tense. His jaw set, his shoulders back, and his adam's apple bobbing, he looked like some strange concoction of aggravation and … worry?

Fakir looked at her, communicating with his eyes alone. _Be careful._

But why?

Prince Siegfried led her away, as if Fakir, Uzura, and Lamp didn't exist at all.

* * *

The last sunset she spent with Mytho took place mere moments before Fakir had taken her. This time, he took her to the gardens within the safety of the Chateau's walls, and she appeared far from presentable.

Fidgeting with the frayed ends of her apron, she gave Mytho a smile. But his eyes continued straight ahead, and so her smile faltered and she lowered her gaze.

At least the view served to calm her somewhat. The gardens were breathtaking, even in the dead of night, so sunset was nothing short of miraculous. Orange and pinks bounced off the calm pond nearby, frogs and ducks disturbing the silence with rhythmic _ribbits_ and _quacks_ , the well-groomed flower bushes reaching toward the last of the light before it disappeared beyond the western mountains. When they approached the fountain topped with a glorious stone swan, he let her sit upon the stone and lowered down beside her, keeping his grip tight and protective around her hands.

Licking her lips anxiously, she gave him a weak smile, searching for words. Why did she have the feeling that something was wrong again? Had she displeased him by going out to the town? "Um—! The gardens are really beautiful!"

"Yes."

"Ahah … and these flowers smell so nice!"

"Undoubtedly."

"Mmm … Um … Mytho?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Are you … alright?"

"Of course I am," he said, a smile finally touching his lips. But they didn't reach the pinkness of his eyes. "I am with my future queen. How can anything be wrong?"

"I just … you seem … I dunno. N-Nevermind."

He chuckled, reaching up to tuck her hair back into the shield of her bonnet, the hairs on her cheek prickling with his cold touch. "My silly princess. Always so worried. It _is_ because you love me, don't you?"

This wasn't the first time he mentioned love in this insistent way. Her blood ran cold at the thought. Distinctly uncomfortable, she took a deep breath and tried to scoot away. "Um … Mytho, I—you keep saying things like—"

"—You _do_ love me, don't you?" He kept her where she was, his expression unchanging, but his hands squeezing her own. "Why do you always move away, my lady? Do you not remember our first day together? How beautiful you were, the way you looked at me. Have you _changed_ your mind?"

He threw too many words at her all at once, and the sharpness in his gaze _frightened_ her. He was a stranger, unfamiliar—! "P-Please, let go—!"

"I thought you loved me, my lady. That you were to be my queen, and give your heart to _only me_. And I'll _not_ let you change your mind—!"

"You're _hurting_ me, so—!"

Fiercely, his arm darted around her shoulders in an attempt to pull her closer. His grip was stronger than she expected, and she watched his previously composed visage melt into a scowl, eyes glimmering a terrifying, cloudy red before reverting to pink. "You hurt _me_! Do you think I don't know about _him_? Do you think I'll allow him, or your friends, or even that stupid, little fairy _thing_ to take you away from me?!"

"Mytho, _stop it!_ " Ahiru wrenched herself away, twisting and scrambling back and falling on her rear to the grass. She stumbled to her feet, heart racing and tears pooling in her eyes.

When she turned to look at him, he was hunched over, his hands digging into his white locks, shoulders shaking.

"... M-Mytho …?"

He opened his eyes. Watery, warm, golden irises glimmered in recognition and shame. "Oh … my lady, _please_ … I'm so sorry, please forgive me," he uttered, his voice broken.

"Mytho …" Shaking, she reached out for his shoulder. "What's wrong? What happened?"

He shrugged her off sharply. "N-No, please … leave me be. I'll … I'll be alright soon. Time. I just need time." Rising to his feet, he stumbled deeper into the gardens, his hands grabbing at his chest. She felt the urge to follow him, but …

… He scared her.

"Lady Ahiru!"

She jumped, startled, but calmed a little when it was only Raetsel who jogged to her side, worry etched in every line of the housekeeper's face. "Oh, Lady Ahiru, are you—?" Ahiru's bottom lip trembled, and Raetsel didn't say any more. She merely wrapped the small duchess into her arms and tucked her head under her chin.

Over Raetsel's shoulder, Ahiru spotted the doors that led back into the castle, Karon, Mr. Katz, and Fakir standing by in concern and regret.

* * *

"I should've told you earlier. About everything; about your prince. I got distracted."

Ahiru tried resting in her own room, but she couldn't sit still. Instead, she found herself in Uzura's room with Fakir, the little girl snoozing gently on her lap on the bed while Fakir hunched over a blank page, quill poised between his fingers. Lamp sat beside his inkwell, her light flickering calmly.

"No, no, don't say that! We were having fun earlier. I'm … glad I know now." Ahiru bit her lip, brushing her fingers through Uzura's hair. The poor girl was probably exhausted from the day's events. "I'm kind of … relieved to know. That it's because of something else. That he's not _really_ like this."

She recalled the conversation she'd had with Mr. Katz, Raetsel still holding her close. " _Growing up, Mytho had always been rather self-conscious,"_ Mr. Katz revealed, " _despite his honorable and kind visage. Always wondering if he was nothing but a prince_ — _if people only cared about him_ because _he was a prince. He grew out of it eventually, but perhaps weakness of heart opens a person to a whole slew of vulnerabilities, likened to a sickness._

" _Be kind to him,"_ Mr. Katz had said, " _but be wary. Sometimes, it is the prince who must be saved."_

"This is all … so _much_ ," Ahiru murmured, shaking her head, "Mytho, under some kind of spell, maybe? And that person back then—my ancestor's assistant … Fakir, do you really think _all_ of this is …?"

"Drosselmeyer always had a penchant for dramatics." Fakir scowled at his blank page, Lamp's light casting even darker shadows under his already harsh eyebags. "It wouldn't surprise me in the least. I don't know your prince as well as you do, but if he's acting _this_ strangely, then we're dealing with something horrible enough for him to think of."

This was a lot of information to take in in one day.

Still, Fakir looked positively fatigued. Ahiru asked, "Why don't you go and get some sleep? I can stay here with Uzura and Lamp."

Hesitating, Fakir shook his head. "I need to work."

"But you're not really getting anything done. Go rest! You really must be exhausted!"

"I _said_ I need to work," he snapped.

That startled her, but Ahiru hardened her gaze and pouted. "... What's wrong?"

"... Sorry. I just …" he trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I didn't want you to worry about this on top of everything else."

"But … I wanna know! We're a team!"

After a pause, Fakir released a breath and relented. "I feel it. I think … Autor might be on his way to finding us. The air is shifting, the world is—I can't explain it. But if I don't do _something_ , then we won't have any time before they're at Vineta's gates." His green eyes grew sharp. "I'm _not_ letting Raven destroy this place, too."

Vineta could be their future. He must've seen that in the village today.

"... My powers aren't what they were," Fakir confided, dropping his quill and rubbing his eyes. "Or, if they are, then I haven't tapped into them properly. It's just been so long, I don't know what— _argh._ I'm failing you. I wasn't thinking. I don't even have a damn plan."

Heavy and sad, Ahiru's shoulders slumped. Really, this was all far too much. And she thought the world was going to end when she was in Wyvern! Now, there was so much _more_ at stake, and she, Fakir, and poor Uzura were in the center of it all. Now, there was a war. Now, they had to save Mytho as well ...

Could she really do nothing?

Weakly, she gave him a bittersweet smile. "After … h-how about, after all this is done with, we all … we all go on vacation!"

He raised an eyebrow. "What."

"I mean it! We'll go on a vacation! Mytho and I will take you all, and we'll go somewhere amazing! I can take you to see my cousin in Hedeby! The ocean, remember? And the seagulls! We have really good ice cream there, too, with cream and cherries on top. Have you ever tried cherries before? They're really sweet, but sometimes I forget about the pit, but I think you're not the type to forget about those things even if I always accidentally swallow them and it'll … it'll be … it'll be … great …"

She realized then how silly she must've sounded. Like always. Silly, dumb duchess, who couldn't do a thing to help.

… But Fakir stood up, and sank gently down into the bed beside her, careful not to wake Uzura. "... Where else would you want to go?"

His expression was tender, and her lips curled back into a little grin. "Places I've never been before!"

He returned her smile with one of his own. "Like where?"

"Like … like those mountains west of here! I'll bet the view is amazing!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! And I heard that there are big, big lakes by Kunz! That's where Mr. Katz is from, I heard! They're reflective and clear, and people have the best time swimming! Uzura would like it!"

Fakir snorted. "I don't know if Uzura can swim, actually."

"Eh?! Three hundred years and you never taught her to swim?"

"We didn't have a lake underground, but thanks," his smile widened.

She blushed at the sight of it, and turned her attention to the stitching of the quilt beneath them. Her voice quieted. "... There are waterfalls in the southern islands. They say it's warm there, year-round. Never … never snows. We can go anywhere we want, really … or at least, pretend to."

They fell into a calm silence, watching Lamp's light dance upon the ornate walls as the lady bug dozed off on one of Fakir's stacks of paper.

Until Fakir spoke again. "... It might be enough to pretend. At least for now."

"Hm?"

He stood, a flash of determination and, dare she say it, inspiration, crossing his eyes. "I can't control reality like I could before. Not yet, anyway. So we can't actually go to the places you want to see.

"But, thanks to you, I might at least be able to convince them that we did."

Ahiru's eyes brightened. "You have an idea?"

"Yours, actually." He crossed back to the chair and picked up the quill, careful not to wake Lamp. "Let's give Autor the story he's looking for."

* * *

"Elder Raven!

Autor burst into Raven's hut, panting and waving a stack of papers in his hand. "I found them!"

The elder stood, his crimson eyes sharp and menacing, the corner of his lip curling into a smug smirk. "Where?"

"They're hiding out in a mountain range, southwest of here!"

"Good. Give our scouts the vision and I'll send them off. Keep track of them, and never let them out of your sight!"


	15. Sonata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, story-spinner! This is what you've become! Such a tragedy!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, thank you all for once again waiting so patiently!
> 
> Shout outs and all my love to my readers, and to those kind enough to draw art for this story! Mommacomms, blueberryhope, ampharos98, zerozeroren, caramoccii, loeise, zanas-kun, and twinkiefaith! You're all so wonderful, and your amazing work just takes my breath away. -; I'm super honored and I love you all!
> 
> Readers, please check out their pages! Their work is phenomenal!

_A sparkling petal brushed against Ahiru's cheek, feather-light and soft like down._

_There, bathed in floral starlight beside her, rested Mytho, a contented smile touching his lips. His golden eyes glowed appreciatively as he reached for her hand._

_But his touch was cold. Empty, like a glove._

_The flowers lost their luminescence, dimming and wilting._

_She tore her gaze from Mytho's, sitting up as the field darkened._

_Just beyond her reach, Fakir lay, green eyes dull, scales piercing from beneath his skin, a gaping maw of a wound torn open from shoulder to navel ..._

* * *

Ahiru awoke in a tangle of sheets on the ground. The floor was too cold and too hard to be grass. And above her, Lamp buzzed about in concern, the lady bug's light flickering off the safety of her Vinetian chambers.

Her heart hammered painfully in her chest and her nightgown clung to her sweat-drenched skin. It was only when Lamp tugged at the blankets ensnared around her legs and arms did Ahiru noice the messy heap in which she found herself.

Just a dream. She sniffled and wiped at the tears that trailed down from the corners of her eyes. "S-Sorry, Lamp! I didn't ... I didn't mean to wake you or anything. I must've been pretty loud, huh?"

Lamp reached out to touch her cheek, the lady bug's light warm on her clammy skin. With a forced smile, Ahiru cupped her hands so Lamp could sit comfortably in her hold, and stood, extracting herself from her sheets with a little stumble and a kick.

It was too dark to be morning—a glance toward the silvery moonbeams streaming past the gossamer curtains over the window confirmed that dawn was still a few hours off. But how was she going to get any rest now?

Wyvern truly changed her. Sleepless nights and quiet days have been close companions lately. She wanted to spend time with Mytho, but ...

She went out of her way to avoid him.

... Well, not entirely. There were times when she knew he was seeking her out, but at the behest of those closest to him, she kept her distance. Raetsel assured her that the real Mytho wouldn't want Ahiru to be near him right now, no matter how much she yearned to be.

What happened to Mytho's gentle eyes? His soft smile? What happened to the Mytho to whom she was promised and with whom she spent a beautiful day about the town? How could she bring him back? How could she be the one to save him? And in the end, could they still be together?

She wanted to go to Fakir's room for help, but she bothered him enough. He was busy trying to keep Autor "at bay," while trying to become powerful enough to do something about this curse. And though Ahiru didn't understand it very well, all she could do was trust in him. He never let her forget that they were running out of time.

After tonight, fourteen days remained until ...

... Until what? Until Fakir, Uzura and the rest of the dragons vanished in a flash of light? Until she sacrificed herself? Until war tore Vineta apart and Mytho fell deeper into turmoil? And all the while, Fakir was working so hard, and everyone in Vineta prepared for battle, and she did nothing.

"Lamp?" Ahiru whimpered helplessly, cradling the lady bug close to her heart, "Why is everything so _hard_?"

Lamp could not provide an answer other than an embrace around Ahiru's thumb.

It was a small comfort. And at this point, Ahiru would take what she could get. Her gaze trailed toward her vanity where her red jewel glinted in the moonlight beside an old, familiar music box. There was a time when clutching that pendant would bring her thoughts of her mother-the ultimate comfort in her times of profound sadness and doubt.

However, she didn't touch it when she came to sit in front of her vanity. Instead, she reached for the music box, winding the key in the back until it could wind no further, and released.

From within, the little porcelain ballerina, with her painted smile and tuft of tule for a tutu, emerged in her frozen arabesque, perpetually elegant even after all these years. The passing of time left the soft chimes and soothing melody scratched and tired, but the familiarity and warmth remained. Lamp fluttered beside the tiny dancer, her glow casting its shadow over the wall. The ballerina twirled, tall and poised by Ahiru's side.

Ahiru rested cheek against her arms and, like this, she slept.

* * *

The dry heat of Rungholt left Prince Femio's lips chapped and cracked. He licked at them anxiously, his eyes trailing out from his high vantage point to the departing company of Runholtan knights. In uniform succession, they marched from the stone gates of the city. Heavy footfalls and clanking metal rang out into the quiet air and reached the prince's ears high in the tower of his fortress.

Without tearing his gaze from the spectacle, he gestured to one of his slaves for his lip salve with a careless wave of his hand. The slave delicately smeared the balm along Femio's dry mouth with a pinky finger, dabbing gently to soothe the rough skin.

After all, the prince loathed discomfort.

Rose oil salve. Prince Femio's favorite. Yet as he smacked his lips together and reveled in the small relief, this strange lack of ease in his mind simply refused to diminish. He felt … bothered by something.

Drums and metal clanking scraped against the back of his skull, so he turned from his balcony and retreated into the quiet safety of his bedchamber.

He shivered despite the warm air.

Taking his leave from those who cared little for him, he allowed his feet to carry him in the direction of Montand's room. His valet's company pleased and soothed him far more than the rest of his subjects and he felt particularly forlorn this afternoon.

Montand assured him that victory was inevitable. Why did he feel such heaviness regardless?

As he swept through the halls, the slaves avoided glancing in his direction as they were wont to do unless he addressed them directly. He pulled his weighty, fur-lined cloak closer to his slim form and continued his trek. Odd. His servants' behavior never bothered him before. Unnerved by his own sudden bout of ill feelings, he was grateful when Montand's door came into view.

Just as he reached for the knob, however, a hushed voice, muffled by the heavy wood of the door, permeated from the gap of the keyhole.

Old. Amused. _Not_ Montand.

The voice spoke with whimsical, gauzy echoes, as if speaking through fog. Fanciful. Otherworldly.

"I see we've garnered enough strength for us to speak a bit easier, hm? But it seems our characters are quite stubborn! Tsk, tsk! Not knowing their places—this is not quite the tragedy I had in mind!"

Femio dramatically leaped away from the keyhole. Characters? Had Montand organized a play without his prince's permission? Surely Femio's inherent talent was worth nothing less than the lead~!

But the voice carried on, wavering like ripples in water. "It seems that one of my favorite principals is falling into character quite easily, but not quickly enough, I fear!"

Montand muttered something in agreement.

"Yes, yes, a bit of darkness is well to do for a tragic, princely protagonist! But to _truly_ become another, one should be utterly empty!"

Princely hero? Were they speaking of Femio?

Or ...?

"Make haste, make haste, before the curtain call! See to it, my protege, that our story continues on! That our noble Prince Siegfried becomes our perfect, tragic hero! That my delightful, darling descendant and my dear dragon friends accept their roles once more!"

Prince Femio, once again, moved away from the keyhole, the unpleasant wash of cold blood flushing through his veins.

This play ... did not seem so entertaining. Not at all.

* * *

Rue stared listlessly as Elder Raven placed the small drum on her cot.

"Let this be a reminder of your failures," Raven said, the gentle tone doing nothing to veil the underlying disdain in his voice. "Our precious Uzura, kidnapped by your traitor of a brother."

Rue said nothing in reply, lowering her gaze in shame.

The elder's eyebrows softened, though his crimson eyes remained sharp as he sighed. "But ... you are like a daughter to me, Rue. You always have been. A good, dutiful daughter. And perhaps I'll find it in my heart to forgive you one day. Even as we speak, Autor is right on their trail, and they ought to be brought home within the week. Once this curse is lifted, maybe you will have a chance to redeem yourself. Do not disappoint me as your brother has.

"In light of these developments," he continued, turning his nose up, "I'm allowing you to leave your room until I decide you've had enough."

His frigid air remained even after he left her to her thoughts. Rue sat dismally with Uzura's drum in her lap. Certainly the instrument was well-worn and had undergone frequent patches and repairs, but it was in impressive condition considering it endured three hundred years of constant attention from a mentally five-year-old child.

Rue toyed with the frayed ends of the canvas stretched across the wooden frame (the original animal skin was long-since replaced), lightly drumming on the surface with dull taps that reverberated through her stone hut.

What was the point of leaving her room? Surely, Rue should've been grateful to Elder Raven for giving her such leeway after her abysmal failure, but what was waiting out there for her?

Her power, dormant inside of her, had grown over the centuries. Before, yes, she could influence the hearts of many—small things, like convincing Autor to break his glasses when they were but children, or swaying Fakir into giving her the last of the freshly-baked potatoes. But this ...

Holding Uzura's drum close to her chest, she stumbled toward the doorway and slipped outside into the dim emptiness of Wyvern. A small distance away, Freya passed by, balancing a basket of herbs at her hip. Absent were the soft serenity of her usual presence, the gentle way in which she'd caress the leaves of her wares, and the light whispers of thanks and appreciation to each petal and root. Hermia took it upon herself to take over the laundry duties while Rue was in isolation and other villagers were sent to seek out Ahi—the _sacrifice_. But Hermia did so with mechanical efficiency, scraping fabric roughly against the washboard without her typical awkward splashes or flustered breaths when coming upon a person's undergarments. And she'd heard in passing that Malen hadn't picked up a piece of charcoal in days.

Rue changed them all with a twirl of her toes. The villagers were focused. Single-minded. All of them determined to see to Elder Raven's glorious plans of becoming the dragon guardians of this world.

"Rue," Freya murmured as she passed, her head tilting and a curtain of golden hair falling past her shoulder, her eyes holding an edge of suspicion usually foreign to her elegant features, "Elder Raven said you are to be confined to your room for the duration of our curse."

"... He forga—" No, that wasn't right. He hadn't forgiven her. She hadn't yet earned it. "He's released me. For now. You can ask him yourself if you don't believe me."

Freya merely conceded and kept on her way, leaving Rue unsettled by her cold countenance. Rue clutched the drum with growing desperation and let her feet carry her away.

And moments later, she found herself in front of Fakir's hut.

Why was she here? Certainly this place would bring her no consolation of any kind. Just resentful reminders of her own failures, and of her brother's utter betrayal. For someone who so tragically lost his powers, he certainly had a knack for taking control of all their destinies without consent. Still, she wandered inside, as it was better than seeking out the comfort of the villagers she herself ruined.

His hut was like any other. Decrepit, barren, and sad. A washbasin and pitcher, a small chair, the shelf full of miserable scrolls and books, a table, a cot against the stone wall ...

... Her eyebrows furrowed. His cot lacked sheets. She let her gaze travel further, tracing the edges of the thin cushion to the empty space beneath the bed.

Except it wasn't empty at all. Her stare landed upon a heap of thin blankets on the ground beneath the mattress, wrapped in a messy ball, as if someone haphazardly stuffed it away in a rush. She delicately placed Uzura's drum onto his bed, knelt down to the pile of fabric, and reached to drag it out and peel it open.

She flinched back when a piece of shattered glass pinched into the tip of her finger.

The jagged edges of a broken jar surrounded a mess of shredded paper and a quill with a snapped feather. And staining the pages and the cloth were silvery streaks and blotches that matched those of the barely-legible scrawl on the ruined parchment. Even as the written words smeared messily across off-white paper, she recognized the familiar, uniform cursive and consistent lettering.

Fakir's penmanship. A sight she hadn't seen in almost three hundred years.

He'd been writing.

Rue's blood ran cold.

* * *

Two quills scratched fervently against paper, miles and miles between them.

One writer sought truth. The other sought to create his own.

* * *

Fakir's hand ached fiercely, the skin red and calloused where he compressed the quill against the inside of his fingers. He dropped the pen and cracked his knuckles with a wince.

Hopefully, what he'd written would be enough to keep Autor busy for another day. Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, he turned toward the grand windows, scowling at the midday sun. Fourteen days left, and he still hadn't made any _real_ progress. He intended to figure something out by now, but only Ahiru's words etched themselves onto his paper. Only the adventures she dreamed of. He remained incapable of writing anything else into reality.

And not for a lack of trying. Despite Ahiru's rather frequent visits and Uzura's presence (when the child wasn't out and about with Ahiru exploring the entire Chateau), he primarily barricaded himself inside his guestroom, avoiding the hustle and bustle of the castle activity. There was little he could do regarding the matter of the war—not that he wanted to be a part of that in the first place. And he _surely_ wanted nothing to do with the prince's stupid ball.

Going outside of the Chateau was out of the question as well. Though tasting freedom again gave him a renewed sense of purpose, it didn't feel right experiencing it without his sister and the other villagers back in Wyvern. Especially after he fled with Ahiru and Uzura.

He heard a knock on his door and sighed. This was to be expected. "Come in."

Raetsel led the way in, wheeling a small cart with a tray of various baked goods and tea set in quite a presentable arrangement. Karon, Lysander, and Mr. Katz dutifully followed, filling the room with their formal presences.

"Miss Ebine is so pleased that you appreciate her food," Raetsel said with a giggle behind her hand, "More than anyone else in the Grand Chateau, I imagine."

Fakir's cheeks heated and his eyes narrowed. To be frank, he hardly remembered the taste of sugary foods before the curse was placed upon them, and being reintroduced to cookies and eclairs after centuries of root plants, fruit, and dried gopher meat didn't bode well for his teeth. With a clenched jaw, he forced out, "They're ... they're for Uzura."

Mr. Katz made his way to Fakir's desk and held out his hand for the stack of papers as he did every day—to make sure that what he'd written wasn't anything dangerous, as per their agreement. As he skimmed the pages with sharp, yellow eyes, he toyed with one side of his whisker-like mustache and commented with an offhanded air, "Careful there with those sweets, Mr. Fakir. A full tray this time? It seems you've begun to show us your hoarding tendencies, _nyah_ ~!"

Fakir's eyebrow twitched, his face reddening further.

Karon, who'd been eying the growing pile of crumpled sheets in the wastebasket and Fakir's disheveled state, stepped forward. "Are you quite sure you don't wish to step out? If only for a little while."

"I'm fine."

He rubbed his chin in thought. "Then you've been nothing but productive these past few days? Sitting in front of the desk for hours on end is helping you?"

Fakir had no answer to that.

With a sigh, Karon's eyes stared into his, regretful and resigned. "We've commissioned our best blacksmiths for cold iron blades, bolts, and other such weaponry for our knights."

_What?_

Incensed, Fakir leaped to his feet in an instant. Cold iron? They must've remembered the effect those iron shackles had on him and Uzura upon their arrival. It wasn't difficult to guess what they had in mind. "You said you'd leave my people to me!"

"What are we to do, then?" Karon muttered, crossing his arms. Raetsel and Lysander watched on in grim silence while Mr. Katz continued to occupy himself with Fakir's story. "We wait for you? Nothing has been done to ensure our safety from a threat you brought to us. Our first priority is the protection of our citizens." He paused, exhaling with a shuddering breath. "And under our prince's orders, we need to be prepared for any threats against Vineta. Including your dragonkind. He sanctioned the creation of the equipment himself."

Fakir should've known that planning a _ball_ wouldn't be enough of a distraction for the troubled prince. His hands clenched into fists.

"So," Karon continued, "perhaps you ought to have a change of pace. Get some fresh air."

"You're the one telling me that you've already got dragon-killing weapons being made and you want me to take a _break_?!"

"Sitting here isn't helping you!"

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"Mr. Fakir," Raetsel interrupted with a tilt of her head, "he means well. We all do. Our situations, unlikely as they might be, are entwined. Everything you do affects us, and it goes both ways. I think we all understand that, dragon or not, you're still just a young man." She poured herself a cup of tea. "Get some exercise, and then continue in the library. This room is far too stuffy to get anything done. And perhaps you can even squeeze in a fitting for decent ball attire!"

"I'm _not_ going to a _ball_ ," Fakir grumbled.

Mr. Katz handed the stack of papers back to Fakir, seemingly satisfied with what he'd read. "Ah, Miss Raetsel, as lovely and level-headed as always~! You'd make a fine wife someday, _nyah_ ~!" He pointedly ignored her exasperated glance. "No need for a fitting if he is so determined. We have a company of knights training out on the grounds in preparation for battle. I'm sure General Lysander is not averse to allowing you to practice with them?"

"A-Aye!" Lysander agreed after taking a moment to blink in surprise, "We're always looking for sparring partners. Do you know how to use a sword?"

Fakir stared bitterly at stack of pages in his hands, refusing to meet their eyes. "I don't know. It's been a long time."

"Couldn't hurt to give it a try? You never know."

"That settles it, then, _nyah_ ~?" Mr. Katz left him no room for argument as he gestured for the others to head for the door. "Find comfortable clothes and come downstairs. It'll do you some good!"

It looked as though Karon wanted to say something more, but the advisor merely nodded and turned to leave, leading Lysander and Raetsel out.

Mr. Katz lingered, however, his voice dropping in volume—almost as if musing to himself. "You're quite the writer, you know. I'm particularly enchanted by the way you write about our dear Lady Ahiru. Quite inspiring, _nyah_ ~?

"Be careful there. With those sweets."

Fakir's mouth went dry as Mr. Katz took a graceful step out the door and left him in silence.

* * *

Perhaps Ahiru was too accustomed to loose-fitted clothing.

She heard Pique's and Lilie's stifled giggles from across the room as she gripped the floor-length mirror in front of her with whitening knuckles. And beside her, Uzura cradled Lamp in her small palms, blinking with wonder.

With a sharp, choking gasp, the air was forced from Ahiru's lungs as the corset seized around her waist and hips. The seamstress sighed. "Milady, please straighten your back."

Ahiru made a valiant attempt, but on wobbly legs, there wasn't much she could do to recover any semblance of grace or dignity. Ballgowns were lovely, to be sure, but such an absolute _pain_.

"Ohhhh!" came Uzura's sing-song intonation, "Ducky's face is blue-zura!"

Ahiru groaned. "C-Could it—b-be a little loos-errrr ...?"

"Milady, this is the latest fashion of the kingdom ..." the seamstress countered curtly.

"B-But it _huuuuurts_!" she whined, uncaring about her lack of ladylike propriety, "P-Please?"

The seamstress conceded with an inaudible mutter, and with a few tugs of the ribbons, Ahiru felt the oxygen slowly seep back into her chest. By now, Pique and Lilie doubled over in overt laughter as Ahiru puffed out her cheeks in a pout at their reflections in the mirror.

She really didn't feel cut out for this. "Can I take a break?"

"Milady, the ball is quickly approaching and we've only just begun the fitting."

The ball was the _least_ of her worries, but Ahiru could feel the heat of frustration reverberating from the seamstress behind her. Being even more of a burden was out of the question, so the duchess fell quiet and let the agonizing half-hour of fitting go on without complaint. Pique and Lilie busied themselves with cooing and squealing over the lacy patterns and detailed beadwork, while Uzura and Lamp dove into a pile of soft, folded silks and satins, much to the seamstress's chagrin.

As soon as she was able to get away, Ahiru all but burst through the doors, ecstatic to remove herself from the stuffy fitting room. Pique, Lilie, Uzura, and Lamp scampered after her with glee, and it appeared that they were more excited for the ballgown than she was.

The ladies scuttled and fluttered with kittenish delight through the halls of the Grand Chateau. They ducked beneath trays and baskets that servants hefted between the rooms, earning startled yelps and harsh reprimands as they darted left and right, dodging staff members and furniture.

For a while, just a little while, Ahiru could forget about the world and just _be_ with her friends.

Would she have appreciated all of this back then? Before her kidnapping?

The chase (not that they were running from anything) exhilarated her, and they continued to wind about through the corridors, one particular hall leading out to a veranda overlooking the open grounds. That was when she heard the girls behind her skid to a stop on the marble floor. "The _knights_!" cried Pique and Lilie, Uzura's cooing and Lamp's fluttering wings accompanying their mirth.

"They're so dreamy, huh, Lilie?"

"Pique, darling, they're _especially_ lovely when you consider that they're training to give up their lives in a _battle of the ages_ ~! All for us, their people~! Oh, what sweet sadness~!"

"There's nothing funny about war, Lilie."

"Ohhh, but it can be _romantic~!_ "

"Ahhh, that's so true~!"

When Ahiru stopped to catch her breath and trotted back to her friends, they were all leaning over the balustrade, Pique's and Lilie's chins in their palms as they sighed giddily. Uzura peeked from behind the stone pillars at the display, blinking with wide, curious eyes, while Lamp fluttered over to sit on Ahiru's shoulder to get a better look.

"Ohhhh!" Uzura cried excitedly, "Fakir-zura! Fakir is playing, too-zura!"

"Eh? Fakir?"

Lined up along the grasses, knights clinked and clanked with their practice swords in neatly-pressed uniforms instead of their typical heavy armor. And toward the front, dueling with the young soldier Ahiru came to know as Demetri, was Fakir—easily distinguished, lacking their matching garb and displaying a distinctly unique fighting style.

"Oh, goodness~!" Lilie gushed, "Isn't he so _dashing_ ~?"

"Do you think he's trying to show off?" Pique winked, nudging Ahiru in the side with her elbow.

But Ahiru knew better than that. The flush in his cheeks, the focus in his eyes, the clench of his hands around the handle of his practice blade ... He was taking a much-needed break, no doubt, and the weight of the world fell right down upon her again when she reminded herself of just how much he had to deal with. The miniscule puffs of smoke that escaped his nostrils were evidence of how much he secretly held inside.

He moved differently than the others, too. In contrast with the trained knights, Fakir seemed to focus more on footwork than the sword itself, parrying with gestures that were foreign to her (not that she knew all that much about combat in the first place). Perhaps a piece of his past, long-since buried away with the village of Wyvern. Was that how people fought back then?

With a sharp 'clang,' Demetri forced Fakir's blade away with his own, then swung down in a large arc and stopped just before impacting Fakir's shoulder. From their vantage point, Ahiru could make out the ensuing conversation as they pulled away from their duel.

Demetri gave Fakir an awestruck whistle, despite his obvious victory. "I've never seen fighting like that, Mr. Fakir! Y-You ... could you teach me how to do that with your feet?"

Fakir rested his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. The knights likely had better endurance than he did, too, along with the practice. "It's a dead method," he muttered between pants, "It's fine, but you don't last as long. Better stick to what you know. It works."

"You'd make a fine knight, Mr. Fakir."

"A knight?" Fakir snorted. "That's not for me, thanks. I appreciate the exercise, though. It's been a while." He brushed his dark bangs from his eyes.

Though the ladies fell into silence as they watched, Uzura decided to jump up with a wave of her tiny arms, trying to hop high enough to see Fakir over the balustrade. "Fakir-zura! Fakir-zura! Are you done playing-zura? Can I play, too-zura?"

Pique and Lilie squealed behind their hands when Fakir turned in their direction. With a nervous, quack-like laugh, Ahiru waved, giving Fakir and Demetri each a smile of greeting. Fakir's face looked _quite_ red. He definitely needed to stop overexerting himself.

He turned his attention to Uzura, ignoring Pique and Lilie and their incessant whispers. "No swords for you, Uzura. You do better with drum sticks."

"Ohhhhh!"

"But yeah, I'm finished." He nodded his thanks to Demetri and made his way closer to the veranda where the ladies stood. "I'd better get back to work."

"Eh? Already?" Ahiru pouted, her heart sinking at the thought. It was rather nice to see Fakir talking to people other than herself, Uzura, and those who took care of the Grand Chateau. After three hundred years of being around the same villagers, it must've been so new for him. And Demetri was one of the few people to not stare at Fakir like he was some kind of monster. "But you've been working so hard already!"

"Indeed, Mr. Fakir," came a voice from behind her, soft and noble, but hollow all the same. "Surely you can spare a few hours for us." A cool touch brushed against her hand, and a chill ran down her spine when Prince Siegfried brought her arm up to curl around his own.

Empty. Like a glove. Cloudy, pinkish eyes. When the prince approached, Lamp immediately fluttered away from Ahiru, taking shelter within Uzura's grasp instead.

"M-Mytho—! H-How've you bee—are you doing oka—w-well, it's awfully nice to see you! Ah ... ahaha—!" After days of avoiding him, Ahiru was suddenly at a loss now that he was right by her side. She wanted to reach for him, embrace him, anything to bring warmth back to his skin and to his smile, but the sharpness and detachment in his eyes repelled her.

In her peripheral vision, Karon, Raetsel, Lysander, and Mr. Katz also made their presences known and watched, undoubtedly keeping an eye on Prince Siegfried's every move.

Fakir visibly stiffened. "... I've wasted enough time. I should probably go." With an anxious clench of his jaw and a shallow bow, he added, "... Your Highness."

"But I could not help but notice your peculiar style of combat." The prince drew Ahiru in closer, and while she would've once welcomed the contact, the curl of his fingers felt like talons against her arm. "Will you do me the honor of personally demonstrating? A simple spar, perhaps?"

Ahiru had to stop herself from panicking and flailing right out of the prince's tightening grip, the color draining from her face. "W-Waitaminute! I don't know if that's—!"

"I assure you, Lady Ahiru, it is all in good sport," he replied, an edge beneath his seemingly comforting words.

Karon took it upon himself to step forward. "Lady Ahiru is right. With all due respect, Your Highness, I do believe it inappropriate if—"

"I must _insist_ ," murmured the prince with a clench of his fingertips into Ahru's arm.

"Y-Y _owch_!"

Fakir stepped forward, his green eyes blazing and lips curling up in a snarl. "Hey!"

Everyone started, astonished by the bite in Fakir's voice.

As if realizing his mistake, he took a deep, shuddering breath, shoulders tensing. He exchanged significant glances with Karon, Raetsel, and Mr. Katz, and then trained his attention on the grip around Ahiru's arm. "... Alright. One spar. But you'll probably just be disappointed."

Lilie and Pique almost fainted on the spot.

"Eeeee! I believe the tragic prince will win this battle~!"

"No way, my vote's going to Mister Mysterious!"

Uzura spoke up next in a rare display of quiet worry. "F-Fakir-zura? I thought you were done playing-zura ...?" On her shoulder, Lamp clutched the little girl's mint-colored hair, her glow flickering with unease.

"Y-Yeah! I mean, yes, yes!" Ahiru squeaked, "Y-You said you're all done playing! Let's—how about we all just get something to eat! Gosh, I sure am starving right now and I heard there's freshly-baked bread ready and—!"

However, Prince Siegfried released her, a reddened bruise already forming on her skin. Without another word, he stepped down from the veranda. By now, the knights had ceased their practice, watching with profound interest as their prince challenged the creature who'd taken Lady Ahiru a month or so ago.

And though Pique and Lilie couldn't get a hold of themselves, gushing about the oncoming battle for Lady Ahiru's heart, Ahiru could see the truth of it all—in the sharp gaze of Mr. Katz, in the anxious set of General Lysander's jaw, in the bitten bottom lip of Miss Raetsel, in the slump of Karon's posture, and in the furrow of Fakir's brow.

It wasn't a battle for her heart. Ahiru knew well enough that no one would want to fight for something as silly as _that_. Not when Mytho wasn't himself. Not when Fakir was just her friend. Not when she was just a dumb duchess who couldn't help anyone, unworthy of Mytho's affections and Fakir's friendship.

Fakir was going to gauge him. He was going to see what was _wrong_ with him.

Instinctively, Ahiru crossed over to Uzura's side and huddled the little girl and the lady bug close as Prince Siegfried armed himself with a practice sword.

She didn't want to watch, but with the ring of blunt metal sliding with a slow screech against another piece of steel, she glanced up in time to see Mytho dragging his blade against Fakir's. He taunted him in a way that was utterly _unlike_ Mytho at all, for as much as she knew about him.

And in the blink of an eye, Mytho was on the offensive.

Anyone could tell Fakir was caught off guard by the forcefulness in the prince's swings, parrying and dodging with quick footwork as Mytho pursued. He seemed more intent on observing Mytho's movements than landing any hits of his own. Ahiru winced when Fakir almost stumbled back from the onslaught.

"Well, Mr. Fakir!" the prince declared with a false smile, swinging down upon Fakir's steel with a bellowing _clang_ , "Have you somehow forgotten how to fight? I expected more from your earlier display. How _pathetic._ "

Ahiru's heart clenched at the shocking, icy cruelty in Mytho's tone and words. Still, Fakir attempted to maintain his focus, his expression hardening with his determination.

Mytho went on. "Is this what you are capable of, then?!"

A quick jab had Fakir grunting as he strained to veer his opponent's blade to the side.

"The monster that kidnapped my fiancee?! Is this all you can do?!"

With a quick step to the side, Fakir narrowly avoided a blow to the shoulder. "C-Calm down, dammit!" he cursed. Ahiru's heart hammered hard against her ribs. Fakir couldn't gain his bearings this way!

The astonishment of the audience didn't seem to reach the prince at all. But everyone else could hear the chilling laughter that came from him, and the words that struck them all to the very core.

"So, story-spinner! This is what you've become! Such a _tragedy_!"

Uzura and Lamp whimpered in Ahiru's arms as her stomach dropped.

Fakir froze, numbly allowed the prince to fling his sword out from his grip, stumbled back with wild eyes. He fell back with a thud, his mind elsewhere as the prince drew back with every intention of bringing the blunt steel down upon Fakir's head.

" _Stop_!" Ahiru cried, all but leaping from the steps of the veranda and throwing her arms around Mytho's middle. She gripped him tightly, her entire body shaking from adrenaline and panic.

For that long moment, silence reigned, until Mytho, at last, allowed his weapon to drop uselessly to the ground. A grim, confused, troubled blanket of dread swept over the castle grounds: the knights stared on in shock, Pique and Lilie clung to one another in silent tears, Uzura and Lamp trembled against a stone pillar together, and Karon, Raetsel, Lysander, and Mr. Katz stood frozen, unable to move while they struggled to register the last few seconds.

And Mytho and Fakir ...

"Gyah—!" Ahiru squeaked when Mytho, still in her arms, suddenly crumpled to the ground, his weight dragging her down to her knees with him. She held him tightly still, her heart almost breaking at the sight of the sudden _anguish_ that eclipsed the former malice in his eyes. "M-Mytho!"

His reply was small. Pained. As if it tore him to pieces just to utter a syllable. "I ... f-forgive me. There's ..." His eyes, pink, clouded, and swirling, landed on Fakir's prone form just a few feet away. And his gaze was almost pleading as he gripped at his tunic, right over his heart. "There's s-something ... here ... _please_ ...!"

Finally, the prince's eyelids fell shut, and he went limp in Ahiru's arms.

Helplessly, she looked to Fakir. The rest was a blur. Somewhere above her head, Karon commanded Lysander to calm his men and reassure them. Maybe that was Pique and Lilie still crying, or poor Uzura and Lamp, who could only hold onto one another. At some point, Mr. Katz and Raetsel must've attempted to pry the prince's sleeping form away from her arms.

But no matter the chaos that surrounded them now, she couldn't bring herself to look away from Fakir's faraway stare, or the way he clutched at his chest.

Right above the scar from three hundred years ago.

* * *

A day passed, and Fakir remained locked in his room.

Ahiru could tell that Raetsel, Pique and Lilie were trying to keep themselves occupied last night and this morning. They'd successfully convinced Uzura and Lamp to help think of decorations and food for the ball coming up. The poor things definitely needed a good distraction from all of this for the afternoon at least.

For Ahiru's part, when she wasn't helping Uzura and Lamp in their efforts for the perfect "party-zura," she sat by Mytho's bedside where he remained in a deep, likely much-needed slumber. She wanted to take his hand, but ... it was still cold.

Mr. Katz slipped into the prince's bedchambers with the silent grace of a feline, twirling his mustache in thought. "Ah, Lady Ahiru. Please do not trouble yourself if you must rest. I may watch over him if you'd like, _nyah_ ~?"

With a whimper, Ahiru folded her arms on Mytho's bed and buried her face in them. Her words came out muffled and whinier than intended. "But I don't wanna. What am I gonna do instead anyway?"

"Quite a many things, actually."

"Nuh uh." She sounded like a petulant child, she knew, but at this point, what more was there? "I'm no good. I can't help anyone. I just watch things happen. I always just watch things happen and I am always just relying on everyone else and Mytho's still asleep and Fakir won't talk to me and Pique and Lilie don't understand and I don't want Uzura and Lamp to see me like this and make them feel sad all over again and—!"

"Now, now, my lady," Mr. Katz said, "deep breaths."

With a stifled sob, Ahiru blubbered into her sleeves, "I-I—*hic*—o-okay ..."

"Good."

Thankfully, Mr. Katz allowed her a few moments to compose herself before speaking again.

"Now, after everything, do you truly believe yourself incapable of helping anyone?"

"I-I—y-yeah ..."

"Ah, yes, quite the convenient excuse, isn't it?"

Ahiru lifted her red gaze, still sniffling messily. "E-Exc-use?"

"Indeed, _nyah_ ~? What is more convenient than not doing anything?"

"B-But what can I—?"

"Anything you want, Lady Ahiru," he said, a twinkle in his yellow eyes, "Give it a try."

Anything she wanted?

She stared down at Mytho's slumbering form, his expression empty and drained even in his sleep. Mr. Katz said she could try anything she wanted, but when was she ever useful or helpful? When did she ever do _anything_ right? With an anxious gnaw of her bottom lip, she reached up and touched the pendant weighing heavily from her neck. Not for comfort, but as a reminder.

Well, there was that one time. It wasn't much, but …

… It was _some_ thing, wasn't it?

Ahiru gave Mr. Katz a tiny smile, which he returned easily and brightly.

* * *

Fakir pressed hard into the page, words spilling out onto white paper. Another story to keep Autor away. Another day to work toward absolutely nothing.

_"Such a tragedy!"_

Finally finished, he snapped the quill in half between his fingers and flung the pieces against the wall beside him.

Even now, that damned wizard still wouldn't just disappear. Three hundred years of torment, only to be faced with more. His world didn't seem real anymore (not that it ever did). He was outside looking in on his own pitiful existence, watching as every hope crumbled into shambles.

And Fakir _knew_ it was him. There was no mistaking it. As soon as he heard the prince declare those words, Fakir came to this conclusion. He tried writing that _presence_ away from the prince last night, but the words would not come. Reality would not bend. He was, once again, useless to stop D. D. Drosselmeyer.

Maybe Elder Raven was right. This was all Fakir's fault.

If all those centuries ago, he safeguarded his gift and kept it a secret, would Drosselmeyer have bothered to come to Wyvern in the first place? Would Fakir have lived quietly with his writing, weaved simple tales with simple beginnings and simple endings, and died an old man of natural causes? Would Wyvern still be standing today, their own descendants carrying on their magical lineage with pride?

Would Ahiru be blissfully happy in her marriage to a good prince, who would love her and care for her the way she deserved? Would she be free, never once under threat, never once abducted, never endangered? Just safe. Happy.

... But then, Fakir never would've met her.

With a grit of his teeth, he squashed that dangerous, selfish thought before he could linger upon it.

He didn't budge when a timid knock reverberated from his door. And even when the familiar warmth of her voice reached him, he said nothing.

"Fakir ...? Can I come in?"

He pulled out a blank sheet of paper and stared bitterly down at the white surface, already knowing that the words he needed simply wouldn't come.

"Fakir? Um ... I know you're in there. I don't think you're sleeping either ..."

How could he face her now, with all the revelations that came to him over the course of the evening and the following morning? It was all too much. And he still couldn't be rid of the images of her frightened, pained expression when Prince Siegfried harmed her.

"... Hell-ooooooh?" She was beginning to sound impatient.

But for some reason, the idea of just looking at her pained him in ways he couldn't understand.

"Fakiiiiir!" He heard her slump against the door with a low 'thump.' "I don't wanna bother you, but I really need your help! You have to talk to me _some_ time, you know! I'll—aaaahhh, I'll just wait here till you open up!"

Stubborn idiot.

But she had a point. He had to talk to her at some point. Hell, he had to talk to everyone at some point, especially regarding the prince's current ... state.

And if she really did need help, how could he refuse her anything?

... What was _wrong_ with him?

He grumbled under his breath and ran a hand through disheveled, dark hair before he strode to the door. Without preamble, he turned the knob and swung it open.

"Gyah—oof!" So much for a proper noblewoman. Ahiru fell back, sprawling messily onto the floor in a heap of fine fabric and red hair. Her wide, blue eyes blinked owlishly up at him from her upside-down angle.

Ignoring the skip of his heartbeat, he raised an eyebrow. "Happy now?"

She gave him a satisfied grin. "Yeah!" Rolling over, she grabbed onto the doorknob to heft herself up and back on her feet in a sea of skirts, before shutting the door behind her. "Thank you!"

He walked back to his desk, keeping his eyes away from her. "You're right. We need to talk. And you said you needed help."

"... Y-Yeah." She made herself comfortable on the bed, hands folded in her lap and swinging her legs back and forth. "But, you first! So ... So what happened? With yesterday? You and Mytho were both so—it was really weird that you—? Um. Are you okay?"

No.

But he refrained from saying so. He kept to the facts. It was easier that way than dealing with the painful memories. Resisting the urge to touch his shoulder (right where the jagged scar tissue began), he sat in his chair and stared down at the page again. "You saw the prince's behavior yesterday. Everyone did."

"... Mhmm."

Fakir's jaw clenched. "Do you remember what he said?"

Those words. The eerily nostalgic intonation. Words Drosselmeyer spoke just before he stole Fakir's power from within him.

Ahiru fell silent.

Fakir tried to keep his hands occupied, clipping the end of a new quill as he'd broken the other one. "Your prince isn't just under some spell. Drosselmeyer's _in_ there. Somewhere. I know it. I can feel it." Even now, they couldn't escape from the man.

Her breath hitched, her quack-like voice rippling and wavering. "Y-You think that—but how?"

"Monty. Or whatever the hell his name is, now. If everything Mr. Katz theorized is true, then he's right. It's all deliberately connected.

"The war. Your kidnapping. All of that would tear anyone apart, even a prince as good as Prince Siegfried is said to be." Bitter and disgusted, Fakir dropped the quill and rubbed his forehead. "Drosselmeyer planned for your sacrifice. It was written. He might've even foresaw Elder Raven's plans for our future after you lifted our curse. Your abduction and death would leave Prince Siegfried open to whatever influences him now, corrupting him. And the war would keep him cornered. Easy to control people who are cornered and corrupt." The entire village of Wyvern was testament to that. "Me kidnapping you. Two birds, one stone."

A small sob escaped her, and the sound of it was a dagger between his ribs. "A-All this? But why? That's ... so _much_!"

"I don't know," he muttered, his mouth a grim line and anguish in his brow, "Maybe he wants to come back using the prince. With Monty in Rungholt, and Prince Siegfried here under his control ... Maybe he wants the dragons to destroy the war-torn kingdoms, along with ourselves." It wasn't just coincidence that Ahiru ended up engaged to the prince, was it? He likely used the loss of Ahiru to weaken the prince first. And using the prince's form guaranteed him as much power as he'd like, along with a front-row seat to Drosselmeyer's perfect tragedy.

If Drosselmeyer lived again, he could write again.

"A-Are you sure?" Ahiru whimpered with a sniffle. And he didn't blame her. It did seem like quite the tall tale.

Fakir nodded with grave finality. After all, in the end, he was a writer, too. It repulsed him to acknowledge it, but he could understand Drosselmeyer's way of thinking. Ends neatly tied, wrapped in ribbons of prettily woven words, all in a quaint, little tragedy. "I hate him. I understand him. And I _hate_ him for it."

Who was to say Fakir wouldn't have ended up just like him one day, unchecked and unhindered with his gift?

He heard the shift of the mattress as Ahiru stood, soft, padding feet quietly making their way over to the window. She pushed back the curtains to let the afternoon light stream in, beams of sunshine framing her fiery hair and blue eyes rippling with unshed tears.

His heart skipped a beat when she turned to smile at him regardless.

"But you forgot!" she said, her grin widening as she wiped at her eyes, her nose crinkling with the freckles on her skin, "You saved me!"

"... Ahi-?"

"You saved me! And I bet he wasn't expecting that, huh? _I_ sure wasn't!"

His lips parted as he shifted on his chair to face her fully, watching as she sat on the sill and drew her knees up to her chest beneath the thick satin of her dress.

"Before," she continued, her eyes glossy and clear (and he might've forgotten how to breathe for a moment), "you said you wanted to change this fate. And I promised to do it with you! So ... y-yeah, there's a lot to do! And it's really scary, right? But if everything went according to his plan, then I don't think I'd even be here right now!"

A surge of heat spread like wildfire through Fakir's veins at her words. Inspiration.

"Didn't we say we wanted to save everyone? Mytho, everyone in your village, this whole kingdom? I thought I couldn't do anything, and maybe what I _can_ do won't ever be enough. But if you were able to change a lot—not even through writing or powers! You changed so many things, just because you chose to save me!" An exhilarated breath left her lungs as she stood up again. "So ... I'm gonna choose! I choose to save you, too! I could do it once! Remember?"

There was no preparation for the way she tenderly placed her hands upon his cheeks, or any defense for the sudden weakness in his knees. Of course he remembered. How could he forget, deep underground, when dragon scales pierced sharply through his skin, and leather wings sprouted from his back? How could he forget the sudden touch of warmth that drew him from the darkness before he was truly lost?

Speechless, he allowed her to continue, uninterrupted even in her roundabout rambles, her hands falling from his face as her cheeks reddened. "O-One thing at a time, right? Fourteen—er, it's thirteen days now! Well, um, I don't know how to fight in a war, but I guess we can work to keep Mytho as happy as he can be! And we can let Uzura have all the fun in the world, and if the dragons come, then ...! Then, I know that Drosselmeyer is my ancestor, so I probably inherited some magic, because Raven said so before, though I don't know how to use it, but I used it once to calm you down, so maybe if we practice—yeah, we can probably practice, but only if you have spare time, I don't really wanna bother you—remember when I said I needed your help, well this is what's it's about so—!"

Somehow, in the mess that was her earnest words, Fakir understood what she was trying to say. One thing at a time. Preparation.

She was right. About everything.

They had to try. And once again, she was full of surprises.

The realization washed over him like cool rain—the sort he hadn't felt in three hundred years, with soft droplets that caressed his skin and kissed his eyelids as he let himself bask in it.

Somehow, in the course of the past month, he convinced himself that he saved her to keep Raven's plans from reaching fruition. For the greater good. For the world.

He was a fool.

How was this possible?

How did he not see just how far he'd fallen?

Fakir stood up with her, staring down at her hopeful expression from his full height. Resigned, he already knew how this would end. They _would_ save everyone, and she would live happily ever after with the prince she deserved.

Being her friend was enough. It had to be. So for as long as it took, he'd support her.

... But he was still just a weak, stupid boy at heart, and he didn't bother to fight the urge to wrap his arms around her shoulders and draw her into a tight embrace, tucking her head against his chest and burying his nose in her hair. Just this. Only this.

"Idiot," he whispered, his eyes falling shut in bliss as she returned his embrace with her own, her small arms winding securely around his waist, "you didn't inherit a damn thing from him. It was all you. Always."


	16. Fugue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Eh? Oh! No, no, I ... well, yeah, maybe, a little." She shuffled her feet, the pale fabric of her dress swaying gently in the fair breeze. She was quite pretty in that color, her hair pulled up into a knot, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. In more casual attire, comfortable with him, herself, her surroundings ...
> 
> Quite pretty. How foolish of him. She was extraordinarily lovely, and he was a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as always, for all your continued readership! :3
> 
> I also have a playlist for the story now! The link can be found on my profile page if you guys want to listen! Shout-outs to mordengrey, blue-starr-in-the-sky-port, and dustjacketduck for pointing out songs to me! If any of you have music recommendations, I'd love to hear them!
> 
> And for everyone who's read this far, left messages, gave feedback, sent me art, or reblogged this story, I can't explain what it all means to me. I love you all! Let me know if you have any constructive criticism or concerns! All feedback is worth more than gold. :3
> 
> ALSO hey, who has a tumblr? :D

"How did this go again?"

Ahiru pressed her heels together. Toes out, from the hips … What else did Rue say? Surely, she'd be disappointed in Ahiru for slacking on practices.

She gripped the edge of her desk, transitioning with a slide into second position.

Perhaps she could've asked Karon or Raetsel where she might find a ballet teacher, but it didn't seem right learning from anyone other than Rue.

Ahiru missed her. She missed everyone—except Raven. They all must've been so worried, not knowing where Fakir took them, lost and scared deep underground. Did Malen stop drawing? Did Hermia and Freya, kind and lovely as they were, resent her?

She shook her head. No, she couldn't think that way. What did Fakir tell her yesterday? He paused in his writing to glance over his shoulder at her and said, "Doesn't matter what our reasons were. What we—what I did to you was wrong. There's no excuse."

And if Fakir really felt that way, it certainly explained the amount of hard work he'd put into his writing over the last few days. After their talk, it seemed he found his inspiration, and he promised her they'd come up with a solution to everything soon. They had answers now, and knew what was wrong with Mytho—at least, most of it—and knowing the problem was half the battle!

Fakir seemed … relieved.

After all, he never held her like that before.

Ahiru relaxed her shoulders, her form slumping out of her balletic posture as she stared down at her feet.

It wasn't as if they'd never hugged before. That night, by the lake, or the time when he grabbed her to keep her from harm back in Wyvern … But this was the first time he openly embraced her. So tightly. So securely, with strong arms and determined, comforting words. And right before, when he stared down into her eyes, his height more reassuring and protective than imposing as it had been when they first met, there was a certain clarity in those emerald depths that she'd never seen before. And she thought she knew all of his looks by now.

" _It was all you. Always."_

Just like that, Ahiru felt like they could do _anything_.

Her cheeks grew warm.

"Ahhhh!" She shook her head again, drawing herself out of her reverie. "I can't just be standing here," she chastised to herself, "There's so much that I have to do today! Umm … aaaah … I'll just practice later. Yeah." With a determined pump of her fist, she straightened and set out to get dressed. Usually, Pique and Lilie came in to assist her, but Ahiru took to changing herself lately (Lilie had a penchant for lacing the corset as tightly as physically possible and Ahiru was no longer accustomed to the constricting garment). After a quick bath, she chose to wear a rather simple frock, the pale yellow material loose and comfortable over her filmy slip. She pulled the mess of her hair into a high knot—simple, and out of the way. Hurriedly, she scrubbed at her teeth while fishing for the large sack of birdseed under her bed. The birds outside always appreciated it and it was rather nice falling back into the old habits she had back in Hedeby.

Finally, she picked up her pendant, the red jewel glistening in her palm. And after a moment's consideration, she fastened it around her neck.

There, now. She was ready to face the day.

She greeted the guard who stood in the halls with a vibrant smile, her steps full of purpose as she crossed the wing to Mytho's bedroom. First thing was first: tend to him. See if he was awake. Be there in any way she could for him!

When she turned the last corner, however, she paused just as Mr. Katz stepped out of Mytho's chambers, his lips pursed into a grim line. He twirled his graying whiskers in thought.

"Mr. Katz? Is everything okay?" Her voice hitched a little. "Is Mytho awake?"

The wrinkles around his eyes seemed deeper as he forced a smile. "No, not yet, my lady. Please, I will be but a moment, so come in, _nyah_ ~? I'm certain my nephew would appreciate your presence even as he sleeps."

Ahiru's shoulders slumped, but she tried to keep her chin up. "Okay—ah, I mean, yes, alright."

He held the ornately carved door open just long enough to allow her to slip inside and strode away, the heavy wood slowly creaking closed after him.

Mytho wasn't alone. She expected him to be the only one there, lying silent and motionless in his bed, surrounded by soft pillows and heavy blankets. But it was Fakir's tall frame that she noticed first, leaning against the dark wood post of the curtained canopy. He stared down at Mytho's prone figure, his brows knitted and arms crossed, and he only looked up when the door fell shut. Fakir's expression softened when he saw her, his lips parting in surprise and hands slipping into his pockets. "Hey."

"G'morning." she replied with a weak grin, suddenly and strangely aware of the warmth in his eyes. With a blush, she crossed the room to Mytho's bedside, focusing her attention on him.

Comely features, long lashes, the picture of a beautiful, sleeping prince—but pale, with dark shadows under his eyes. Ahiru bit her lip. At least his breathing was steady

She sunk into the mattress beside Mytho and lowered her voice. "Did you get any sleep?"

"A little. More than the past few days, anyway. You?"

"Yeah, I did." She reached out to brush a few wayward strands of pearl hair from Mytho's forehead—and tried not to flinch away from his stone-cold skin. She slowly withdrew and tangled her fingers into the fabric of her skirt. Her smile was forced as she turned her gaze to Fakir. "Ah! So … um, you talked to Mr. Katz?"

He wasn't looking at her, even while he nodded in reply—in fact, he almost seemed determined to avoid her gaze. Was that just her imagination? "He left to go tell the others. Seemed grateful for the information."

"At least everyone's talking! That's good!"

"Yeah. It's something."

She glanced back at Mytho, watching the steady rise and fall of his breaths beneath the duvet, and sighed heavily. "I was hoping he'd be awake by now. Maybe we'd be able to help him, you know? Make him happy, keep him strong. But I dunno what to do while he's sleeping like this …"

"... I tried writing about him. Nothing's working on my end." Fakir kept his eyes to the floor. "What he needs is your presence right now."

Her shoulders slumped and she sighed again. "Maybe." Why did she feel like that wasn't true at all? She couldn't even hold his hand without pulling away. What a great fiancee she turned out to be …

Fakir's footsteps echoed as he suddenly made his way to the door.

"Eh?" Ahiru stood. "Where are you going?"

He turned to look over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. Somehow, it bothered her that she didn't know what it was that glimmered in his eyes—apparent and brimming. Resolve? Acceptance? "That story isn't going to write itself," he finally said with a wry smirk, "My hand's gotten enough rest. And I should check on Uzura and Lamp."

Right. Autor was still looking for them. Her thoughts drifted back to their friends in Wyvern. "Oh … okay." She stopped him from reaching the door once more. "Wait! I … Fakir?"

He waited patiently for her to continue.

"... Do you think …?" She swallowed. "Is Drossel—is Mytho already—?"

Thankfully, he understood what she meant, and swept in to rescue her from having to continue her dreadful thought out loud. "We won't let him. I promise." The certainty in Fakir's voice wrapped her in a blanket of hope and security. "We'll bring Prince Siegfried back. To you."

For the first time that day, a grin came easily to her. "Right!" With a determined nod, she pumped her fist. "After you write today, let's practice the thingy! So come find me after, or any time if you need any help!"

"If I do, you'll be first to know. We'll meet up later." He paused to smirk. "For the 'thingy.'"

Ahiru's heart leaped at the smile he gave her just then. Warm. Teasing. Almost effortless. She stared owlishly at the door even long after he took his leave.

She cleared her throat and sat back down beside Mytho, remembering where she was and who needed her right now.

Mytho … Did he really know she was by his side? Even if she was scared to hold him … could her feelings reach him?

"We'll save you, okay?" With a gulp, she reached out and placed her palm to his cold cheek, trying to transfer her warmth to him despite her trembling fingers. "So just hang on a little longer!"

* * *

Rue kept mainly to herself these days. Wyvern was colder now, whatever cheer or solace she used to find in this darkness snuffed out like dying embers. Her friends were no longer themselves. Ahiru, Uzura, and her brother were gone. The only father-figure she'd ever known was _ashamed_ of her.

Wasn't it just last month that they celebrated so happily? That they had hope? Were they not dancing and laughing just those weeks ago, with Ahiru finally within their grasp and freedom just a touch away? Why did it feel as though they were right back at the beginning, so close to the end?

And … why did Rue do nothing about it?

Guilt crept up from her belly, spilled into her throat, and flooded her mouth with bitterness.

The lady bugs kept their distance, leaving Rue alone in the underground fields, the gleaming petals an expanse of starlight in the depths—at least, from what she _remembered_ of starlight.

No one came down here anymore. Why would they waste time lounging about with lady bugs and sun flowers when they were busy preparing for freedom? Or was it freedom they were even after anymore? Rue hardly knew.

Fakir's writing, or what was left of it, sat in a messy, disgraceful heap beside her, half-hidden among glimmering flowers in the darkness.

Tentatively, she reached out to brush against the corner of one, torn page, Fakir's smudged, neat penmanship both familiar and foreign to her all at once.

_The girl with the brightest spirit and warmest heart stumbled and_ —

The rest was illegible. But Rue somehow knew it was about Ahiru.

Who else would Fakir write about so fondly? Who else would Fair value so much as to forsake his own people to save her?

It distressed Rue even more, knowing that part of her understood why he did it. Rue betrayed him first with her dance. A dance that didn't even _work_. And it was that same understanding that drove her to gather up Fakir's discarded items into her arms and hide them away instead of informing Elder Raven immediately. She was despicable. A wretch.

Didn't she love Elder Raven more than she did her brother? Or even Ahiru herself? How could she let herself choose anyone over the one who'd been there for her even in her darkest moments?

Days went by—far too many for it to be considered at all safe. How many weeks did they have left, if at all? Time was short.

And yet, there she was, huddled up in the edge of the abyss among glowing blooms. With a resolved, firm gaze, she picked up the messily wrapped bundle of Fakir's belongings.

A decision had to be made.

So, she chose.

… _Please, forgive me, Elder._

She held up one torn page, pursed her lips, and blew.

The embers warmed her cheeks as the orange-red streams cracked and fluttered from her mouth. With one, simple singe, the corner of the paper she held caught flame, the fire growing as it licked over smudged, silvery words, the flickering heat like the sun among the starry flowers. She watched the dissipating ribbons of smoke as they lifted and vanished, taking the evidence with them.

It calmed her, somewhat. As if her doubts and hesitations burned along with it.

She hadn't been an optimist in a long while—not since losing Giselle. But she felt that ... this was alright.

"Rue?"

Rue whirled around. "Autor." She hurriedly gathered up the items into a pile and attempted to block Autor's view with her body. Flustered, she spat, "What are you doing here? Don't you have something better to do?"

"... We still can't find them. But I was so sure—I thought I saw them in those mountains. I _still_ see them in those mountains."

There were no words to comfort him, and even if there were, she doubted she'd say them.

"... I thought I'd visit you. But you weren't in your room."

She glanced over her shoulder. There were heavy bags beneath his eyes, prominent despite his lopsided spectacles. The sight of the purple bruise on his cheek made her wince. She almost felt a little remorseful, hiding away when Autor received the brunt of the pressure. When their scouts came back with nothing after searching the mountain range, Raven took the frustration out on him.

Rue turned away. "Well, you visited me."

"Rue … there's something I want to say. Something I _need_ to say."

Her eyes closed and she fought a sigh. "Stop, Autor."

"With everything that's happening, with how close we are to—before any more time passes, I just want to tell you—!"

She ground her teeth together. He didn't know what he was talking about. "I said stop."

"No, please! Please, listen! For over three hundred years, Rue, I've always—!" He crossed with long, rushed strides to her side, before trailing off.

She wasn't quick enough to hide the items she held in her lap.

"—What's all that?"

"It's nothing."

Autor lowered to his knees and held out his hand. "There's broken glass there! Here, let me—!"

In a rush of panic, she thrust the bundle away from his reach, threw it to the ground, and hurriedly released a gust of hot flames from her lips, igniting the pile with a decisive blaze. The surrounding flowers caught fire and the lady bugs coughed and fluttered off in a frenzy.

"Rue!" Autor scrambled back to his feet, stepping forward to stifle the fire beneath his shoe.

She didn't move or respond, even after he'd successfully extinguished it in the next minute or so, her crimson eyes never leaving the remaining ashes. Some glass, burnt bedsheets, but the rest … unrecognizable.

Her decision was finite. And she had to live with that—for however long that was.

"Rue, what were you thinking?! Setting a fire that large, all the way down here?!"

"Getting rid of some old belongings of mine," she lied, lifting her nose up haughtily as she rose to her feet. Rue turned away, crossing her arms over her chest (and trying to rub the gooseflesh from her skin). "I would've done it more carefully, had you not interrupted me."

"Rue, I just—"

"I'm tired. I'm going back to my room." She crushed the grass beneath her feet as she made her way to the ladder leading to the upper grounds.

"I still want to talk with you …"

"And I still want to be alone."

She left it at that.

_Fakir, Ahiru, do not abandon us._

* * *

The text began to blur in his tiredness.

Mr. Katz shut his book with a dull 'thud,' then sprawled out on the divan. He released a wide, feline-like yawn, arched, and stretched his sore muscles. Keeping vigil over the slumbering prince was an unexciting task, but it had its perks by way of the pretty ladies in the staff. They frequently visited him with offers of comfortable blankets, treats, and tea, and to his delight, most were quite unmarried (and unreceptive to his offers of matrimony, but that was beside the point).

He rose from his seat to cross the room, his posture poised and hands clasped behind him as they usually were. If he wasn't reading, making delightful conversation with the visiting ladies, or taking catnaps, he paced around the prince's canopied bed, watching Mytho for any visible changes.

Nothing roused him. Music, splashes of cold water, even smelling salts had all gone unnoticed. The doctors of the Chateau assured him that Mytho was quite healthy, and it appeared that he was simply sleeping for an extended period of time.

But Mr. Katz knew better.

This was no natural slumber.

He fought back a shiver at the memory of those fierce, pink hues of his eyes, the ferocity with which he swung his blade toward Mister Fakir's weakest points, his snarling, bitter words …

It'd been a shock to all of them. Even now, the consequences spread all throughout the Grand Chateau like ripples. Knights whispered their rumors, staff members gossiped within the servants' passages, and those of greater authority fought to keep it together in the wake of war itself. Strife, both external and internal, threatened the very state of this peaceful kingdom.

He thought of Lady Ahiru's plight. He thought of that dragon's stories. Just two, perhaps three months ago, these events could've been mere fairy tales to him.

Mr. Katz had always been intrigued with the idea of stories coming to life. The mysteries of the legendary D. D. Drosselmeyer were a wonder all throughout the land. Now, he knew better.

As he leaned over the bedside table to light another candle, the covers rustled, Mytho's eyelashes fluttering as he shifted. Immediately, Mr. Katz was at his nephew's side. "Mytho?"

The prince hummed, weary and low.

"Mytho, you've slept for two days now." Mr. Katz placed a hand upon his forehead. Cold. He reached for the pitcher and cup on the bedside table. "You must have some water. Some food. How are you feeling?"

"... I don't know."

Mr. Katz almost dropped the cup as Mytho's eyes gradually opened.

Gone was the sharp, pinkish hue of his irises, as was the insidious intent behind them that was so unlike his prince. He thought that seeing the familiar gold that matched his own would've been a relief. A comfort.

But the emptiness in those eyes was vast. They no longer held resentment or false cordiality. Nor did they hold the warmth, kindness, and goodness that so characterized everything the prince was.

Like mirrors, they only reflected, as if nothing lay within.

Mr. Katz swallowed. "... You do not know? Come, now. Sit up and drink."

Mytho did as was told without question, expression unchanged. He took his cup and sipped until he finished every drop, and then turned back to his uncle, waiting.

"... How are you feeling now, Your Highness?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to eat?"

Empty and blank, Mytho merely shrugged.

Perhaps he was still exhausted. Mr. Katz forced a smile and placed a hand upon his nephew's shoulder. "Why don't you rest a while longer? You must be out of sorts. I'll … come and wake you a bit later when you've regained your strength, _nyah_ ~?"

Once again, Mytho did as he was told, lying back and shutting his eyes without question. Without will. Without emotion. And he slept.

Mr. Katz promised Lady Ahiru to retrieve her as soon as Mytho woke up, but …

Unnerved, he lowered to sit on the bed beside him, a chill running up and down his spine.

* * *

"Fakir-zura! They made me a dress-zura!"

Fakir gathered his latest story into a neat pile on the desk, satisfied with the day's work, but ill at ease. Twelve days left. They were really cutting it close.

"Fakir-zura?"

"Sorry. What was that?"

"They made me a dress-zura! I'm going to the party-zura! They said Lamp can come, too, as long as she doesn't scare any of the guests-zura!"

Fakir's lips curled up into a small smile. At least someone was carefree. If they could give Uzura this, then that was something. "Just behave yourself."

"You're not coming-zura?"

"I'll be too busy." After capping the inkwell, Fakir stood, massaged his sore fingers, and slipped on the fitted vest hung over the side of the chair. With a blush, he also grabbed the cloak from the coat hanger in his guestroom, just in case he—well, just in case. He took Uzura's small hand in his while Lamp buzzed along by her side and led the way out the door and into the hall.

He grimaced upon coming face-to-face with Dame Annerina. She met his gaze with a dull sneer, her long face an unpleasant scowl. His escort, no doubt. They followed her without another word, even though he was familiar enough with the Chateau to find his own way.

Dodging those same curious and suspicious glances from the staff and other knights as they made their way through the ornate and decorated corridors, he still couldn't help notice the busy, yet heavy atmosphere. They occupied themselves with the preparations for that ball, but there were whispers in the halls, tense looks between servants …

He had a feeling he wasn't the only one they gossiped about.

Before his thoughts could linger heavily upon the still-slumbering prince, they arrived at the entrance hall where Karon, Raetsel, and Sir Demetri awaited them.

"Dame Annerina and Sir Demetri will lead a small group to escort you and Lady Ahiru outside the city walls," Karon told him, his hands clasped behind his back. "We cannot allow you to go alone. You understand."

"I get it. Where is she?"

Raetsel brought a finger to her lip in thought. "She said that she forgot something. I hope she didn't get lost on her way back."

"Wait, wait, wait, I'm here, I'm—!"

With an undignified squawk, Ahiru scampered into the entrance hall and skidded to a halt, her cheeks flushed and chest heaving when she realized what a mess she must've looked like. She attempted to straighten herself out, her shoulders squared as she patted down her hair. "Um—I mean, I'm … I'm sorry I'm—pardon me, I had to go and get …!"

Fakir bit back a smile.

"Ohhhhh! Ducky-zura!"

"Uzura! Lamp!" Ahiru, cradling a ball of thick fabric, greeted them with a bright smile. "Fakir! You—oh! You already brought one!"

He blinked down at the cloak that hung over the crook of his arm.

"Cloaks?" Raetsel wondered aloud, "The weather's fair today. I don't think you'll need them."

"Ah, actually, we might, 'cause I dunno if this is going to work or anything, and maybe it's good that we have more than one just in case!"

Uzura hummed. "Ducky doesn't like it when Fakir gets naked-zura!"

Raetsel, Karon, and the knights visibly froze. "Pardon?"

Fakir felt his throat close up.

Ahiru didn't seem to fare any better, her freckled cheeks and tips of her ears a bright crimson and her hands dropping the cloak as she waved them back and forth in front of her face. "N-No, it's not that I don't like—wait, no, no I mean, he doesn't _get_ naked, it just _happens_ , and it was only once or twice and I _didn'tseeanythingmuchIpromise!_ "

He didn't even _need_ their appalled and accusatory glances to absolutely hate himself. His head and heart might as well have exploded. His words rushed out in a flustered tumble as he grabbed her shoulders to steer her out the grand doors. "Ahiru—stop, _stop_. Okay, you know what, we're going. We're going. Let's go, let's just go."

"Your faces are all red-zura."

" _Let's go!_ "

* * *

Their ensuing trek was uneventful, thankfully. It gave Fakir the time to compose himself and let the overwhelming embarrassment thin out a little.

Perhaps Ahiru needed the same, because she was uncharacteristically quiet, even as Uzura and Lamp happily skipped and fluttered around her, and the townspeople greeted their future queen with gracious bows. Her smiles were still plain to see, but he knew when there was something on her mind. She cheered up a little when Uzura's friends scampered up to wave and call out for her, but otherwise stayed muted for the duration of their walk.

He found it more comforting to watch over her than to pay attention to the spectacle they made themselves out to be, as Ahiru was dressed finely (though, not as finely as she had when they first met) and a company of knights marched in order just behind them. It was easier to deal with when they just blended in.

Finally, they reached the castle walls, following the canal out to the green expanse of the open fields. The river extended eastward into the afternoon horizon, and Uzura and Lamp wasted no time in bolting out into the grassland where a large patch of wildflowers grew.

He looked over his shoulder toward the knights. Dame Annerina's expression was hidden beneath her helmet, but Sir Demetri discarded his, waving toward them with a grin. The agreement was they'd keep their distance until they felt Lady Ahiru was under threat.

He knew that those weapons were forged cold iron. And somewhere behind those walls, trebuchets were prepared for any suspicious actions on his part.

Well, at least they cared.

While Uzura and Lamp were still within sight, Fakir led Ahiru further out where he felt there was suitable space for this 'thingy' she wanted to try.

But first thing was first.

"You're quiet. Spacing again?"

"Eh? Oh! No, no, I … well, yeah, maybe, a little." She shuffled her feet, the pale fabric of her dress swaying gently in the fair breeze. She was quite pretty in that color, her hair pulled up into a knot, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. In more casual attire, comfortable with him, herself, her surroundings …

_Quite pretty_. How foolish of him. She was extraordinarily _lovely_ , and he was a mess.

His jaw clenched. This was supposed to be about her. He was being an idiot. "What's wrong?"

"Umm … I guess a few things. I mean, whenever you change, it hurts you, so … yeah, I'm kind of nervous about this thing, and it was my idea, so you might be harmed because of me. Again."

"I can handle it." He crossed his arms and stepped closer, leaning down a bit so he could see her downcast eyes. "What else is on your mind?"

"I also left your cloak back there …"

"I have one here." He gestured to the crook of his arm. "And?"

"I'm …" She scratched the back of her head bashfully. "I don't actually know how to say it right. I don't know how to put it into words."

Fakir smirked. He'd gotten used to figuring out the mess that was her usual ramble. "Try."

Her cheeks turned pink, and he thought his might've, too. "Okay. Um. Back there, I … I really behaved badly, didn't I? I mean, it's not behavior my mom would've shown. I was running around, and kinda being loud. Maybe it's because I was away for a month or something, but it's really hard to remember my manners. I don't really feel like much of a future queen—I don't even feel like a duchess anymore. I just … sometimes wonder if, you know, if I wasn't already engaged to him … would Mytho even like me?

"I-I'm sorry! I feel really, really weird, worrying about these things when so many _worse_ things are happening. I sound … I dunno. I'm sorry."

Fakir's heart sunk.

How was this at all fair?

How was it was okay that someone as remarkable as Ahiru could wonder if she was _good enough_?

And what kind of world did he live in, where it was alright that a sixteen-year-old girl felt _guilty_ for feeling these things? Where it was alright that she could make everyone else feel so appreciated for who they were, and have none of that satisfaction for herself?

Fakir scoffed, reaching up to tug gently at a lock of hair that fell over her shoulder. "Look. See that canal? We first met there."

"Oh! Oh, come to think of it, you're right!"

"I'll be honest. You acted like a snob. Couldn't stand you."

"E-Eh!? Well, you _kidnapped_ me!"

"Yeah, I did. And that's unforgivable." He didn't allow her to cut in. "What I did was wrong, regardless of my reasons. So you had every right to be a snob. You had every right to be as nasty and difficult as you wanted."

His fingers left her hair when he realized he lingered too long. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. Revealing too much would be … too complicated. "Instead, you were kind. You opened your heart. I don't think you'll ever understand what that meant to us."

That jar of ink …

He wished he kept it.

He wished for a lot of things.

His hands clenched in his pockets. "If Prince Siegfried doesn't fall head over heels in love with you, and whoever you choose to be, then that's his loss."

"... Fakir …"

"And you're allowed to feel this way, alright? Tch." He scoffed again, staring bitterly up at the cheery, clear blue skies. "This is the sort of thing a person _should_ worry about. Not about curses and war. You shouldn't have been involved in the first place.

"It's alright to have your feelings. Who doesn't want to be enough?"

Good or bad? Right or wrong? A village or a girl? Freedom or a flash of light?

Every choice by every person … Didn't it all come down to being enough? For another? For himself? For a greater good, or a personal wish?

Allowing his people to perish wasn't enough. Sacrificing Ahiru wasn't enough either.

But being by her side, even just like this, _was_. In a small, tiny ray of hope, this was enough for him, until they could fix everything else.

That was how he found himself here. Even if he could never hope to be enough for her.

"It's fine to worry that you aren't enough." He took a breath, the lines of his brow softening. "Just try to remember that you _are_ , Ahiru."

Without waiting for her reply, he reached out to took her hands in his, bringing them up to his cheeks. "Now, come on. We're out here to practice, aren't we?"

* * *

Grinding gears, turning cogs ... his heartbeat the ticking of a clock.

" _Ah, so my precious main character shall bring about the next act! Your Highness, awaken! A good prince does his duty! Follows his role!"_

He obeyed, empty, heartless eyes snapping open as he mechanically sat up in bed. An older man with a mustache like whiskers lounged and snoozed in blissful ignorance in a couch across the bedroom.

So familiar …

" _No, no, Your Highness, you do not know the man!_ "

Oh.

" _Quickly now! Our task must be completed before time ticks away!_ "

He moved with quiet grace, but with a detachment likened to a puppet.

His feet were bare on the ground, though he didn't feel cold. He didn't feel anything at all.

" _Be sure to keep out of sight, now! We wouldn't want our little act to be interrupted by a rude audience!_ "

Like a ghost, he drifted out into the hall, stopping when servants approached and hunching behind wayward suits of armor or around small corners. He let the voice guide him.

" _This room!"_

He turned the knob and stepped inside.

" _Ah, there now! Those pages, you see?"_

A stack of paper. Neat cursive scrawled out on the surface.

" _Burn them_."

* * *

Autor bolted out of his seat, his glasses falling from his nose.

Images washed over his mind, the dam bursting and overwhelming him. A kingdom, a prince, a war, a runaway dragon and a young sacrifice, two quills scratching miles and miles apart, yet seeking to overwrite the other with desperation.

He almost fainted from the onslaught, his head trying to catch up with what he already knew. And the hope that left him just minutes before ignited in his chest like dragons' flames.

His hand scrambled for a quill, and he almost tipped the inkwell over in his rush. The words flew by, as if it was his own memory, as if it was being _fed_ to him after he starved for days on end. And he devoured it all, eyes wild as his scrawl grew jagged and inconsistent, but at least this was _truth_ that he poured into the parchment this time.

Autor wrote until he almost bled. His digits burned and his hand throbbed.

And when he finished, he sat back, his hand growing limp around the worn quill.

He knew where they went. He knew Fakir's secret.

… And he knew Rue kept it from them.

"Elder Raven!" Autor rolled up the pages and bolted for the stone doorway, crying out into the empty abyss of Wyvern. "Elder Raven, _Elder Raven_!"

Raven looked older. A strange thing to consider, as they hadn't aged for almost three hundred years. But the deadened look in his eyes, the lines marring his face, the sneer that took a permanent place upon his lips …

Autor fought down a fearful shiver and slapped the pages into Raven's awaiting hands. "Look and see!"

"It had better be _useful_ this time." The threat beneath Raven's words stilled Autor's heart. Raven placed a hand upon the sloppy words and let his eyes fall shut, and Autor waited with baited breath for the vision to pass through his mind.

They went largely unnoticed to the apathetic villagers, but for one. Rue emerged from her home, biting her lip in apprehension.

Autor couldn't bring himself to look at her. He had a feeling she wasn't looking at him either.

Finally, Raven's eyes snapped open, immediately focusing on Rue. With long strides, he dropped the stack to the ground in a flurry of pages before snatching Rue's arm with a firm, digging grasp.

Autor winced at the sound of her yelp, but did nothing.

"You _knew_ ," Raven snarled, his crimson eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Elder …! Elder, please, forgive me, I—!"

"You _wasted_ our time. You are a failure. Useless and _worthless_ , just like your traitorous brother!"

With a harsh shove, he sent her sprawling back onto the hard, stone ground. Autor kept his gaze away, his jaw clenching.

"Our scouts will return," Raven declared, "and then I will take half of us to retrieve the girl and lay _waste_ to whatever and _who_ ever stands in our way! I will set that entire _kingdom_ ablaze if I must!"

Finally, Autor looked toward Rue. Her hair, tangled and mussed, obscured her face, her prone figure trembling on the ground.

"Autor, I leave Wyvern in your hands until we return. Two days, and the sacrifice will be in our grasp once more!"

The villagers gathered in the square, already having prepared to leave at any moment's notice. Among them, Hermia, Freya, Malen … others, just as gentle, but stern-faced. Warriors for their cause. Changed for the sake of their freedom.

… This was supposed to be a triumphant moment. Why did Autor feel this way?

Weakly, he lowered to reach for Rue.

She slapped his hand away.

Incensed, he finally broke. "Why … why do you always do this?! You always push me away. You always keep things to yourself. You let us wait this long, thinking that we'd actually _lost_ , when all this time—!"

Her glare was scathing and sharp as she pulled herself to her feet. "Leave me _be_. You've found her, haven't you? You have your answers, don't you?!"

"Rue." Autor shook his head. "Don't you see? I just …" When she tried to walk away, he reached out for her. "I _love_ you!"

At this, she stopped.

"I've loved you! For three hundred years! For _longer_ than that, Rue! I've loved you! Don't you care about our future?! A life together, taking the world back for ourselves?! Don't we deserve that?!"

The stare she gave him disarmed him all at once. A cold smirk, guarded eyes …

He bared his heart to her, and this was her reply?

"You've _pined_ for me. For three hundred years. But you don't know me. You don't know my heart. My desires. We're still the same, miserable people as back then! Nothing has changed. We haven't changed. You don't _love_ me."

He felt like he was punched in the gut.

"I don't know if _anyone_ ever loved me anymore. I don't know if anyone ever cared. Giselle is long since _dead_ , and the only one who ever made me feel like I could have another friend in the world who could ever _want_ to understand me is miles away from here, and she is _doomed_!

"Three hundred years wanting me?" She laughed, bitter and sullen as she walked away. "If you think I owe you anything for that, you're sorely mistaken."

Autor stared after her, ill and desolate, ignoring the chaos that was Wyvern's villagers preparing to emerge from the depths of their prison.

They were to transform and take to the skies. Set ablaze any who stood in their way. Take back what was stolen from them. And in the end, they would all rule what was rightfully theirs.

This … this was supposed to be a triumphant moment.

* * *

The dragon emitted a roar of anguish, throwing his head back as his obsidian scales glinted like daggers in the setting sun.

And below, Ahiru stood, clutching the cloak and burying her face in her hands.

"Fakir … M-Maybe we should stop for the day?!" she bellowed up to him, kicking sadly at the grass beneath her shoes.

She was somewhat aware of the shifting of metal a small distance away, knowing that the knights drew their weapons. Honestly, after the first three transformations, she thought they'd get the clue that Fakir wasn't going to harm her.

If anything, he would be the first to protect her.

" _It's fine to worry that you aren't enough. Just try to remember that you_ are _, Ahiru."_

She fought back a blush as the dragon before her lowered his head, slowly dropping until he rested on his belly in the grass. His hot breath rustled through her hair, but she didn't move away. His eyes bore into hers. "I mean it!" she asserted, reading his expression, "We've been at this too long and you must be really tired. I mean … if it's not working, then … then maybe it wasn't me after all."

He nudged her shoulder with his nose, and she stumbled. " _Qua_ —! No pushing! Fakir, you're so stubborn sometimes!" She leaned on him with an exasperated sigh, her arms slung across the top of his snout and her chin settling on the smooth scales. His massive tail brushed the grass behind him and she thought she felt him stiffen, but it could've been her imagination.

Idly, her attention wandered to Uzura and Lamp. Even hours later, the wildflowers gave them much to play with, several flower crowns adoring Uzura's small head, and a tiny band of woven forget-me-nots around Lamp's neck.

It reminded her of the flowers in Wyvern. Those dreamy, ethereal blooms …

When she turned back to Fakir's large, green and yellow eyes, they were staring at her. She blinked. "Oh! Sorry, did you wanna change back now?" She pulled away from her rather comfortable spot and lifted the cloak, keeping her eyes averted. "Okay, ready!"

… This was always the worst part, though. Her eyes screwed shut, the telltale sounds of furious roars and the cracking of bone melting into anguished cries and panting breaths.

Why would he want to keep this up?

When his breaths fell into composed silence, she whimpered. "Fakir? Are you …?"

The cloak was snatched from her outstretched hands, and she heard the rustle of fabric. "I'm … fine. You can look now."

"Okay …"

He wrapped the material closely around him, his expression tired, but still determined. The remnants of one last scale sunk into his cheekbone and vanished. "Once more."

"Fakir, really. Can we stop?" She bit her lip, staring down at his bare toes. She _hated_ hearing him suffer. As if he hadn't had enough of that in his life already. "It's not me. What helped you before … I don't think it was me at all. It's not working."

"It _was_ you. I felt it. I know."

She glanced up, warmth creeping back up into her cheeks at the confidence in his words and his eyes. How was it that he had so much faith in her? Even earlier …

" _If Prince Siegfried doesn't fall head over heels in love with you, and whoever you choose to be, then that's his loss."_

In an attempt to avoid his piercing gaze, she glanced back at Uzura and Lamp, undisturbed by Fakir's transformations. "It's really not worth you getting hurt over and over again. You're _always_ getting hurt because of me."

"That's not true." Fakir glanced toward the setting sun, his expression unreadable. "Back in Wyvern … the night we left. Rue tried to sway my heart under Raven's control as she did for the rest of the village. Her dance _should've_ worked.

"But I felt something from inside me. The same warmth as back then, when you stopped my transformation after it already began … Maybe you've been the one protecting _me_ all this time."

Truthfully, she didn't think herself capable of that.

But when Fakir's eyes were so soft and so _sure_ , she couldn't find it in herself to argue.

He … made her feel stronger.

Why was he telling her all these things today?

"Fakir, I—" She … what? What did she even want to say? Thank him? Tell him that he was wrong? Tell him that he was right? Ask him why he kept pushing himself so hard? Why he ended up choosing her instead of the fated path? Did she want to ask about their embrace the day before? About what he said, with Mytho falling head over heels in love with her? Why he didn't smile more or—?

"What?"

She opened her mouth to say something— _anything_ —but Demetri's voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent.

"Lady Ahiru! Mister Fakir! His Highness has awoken! _His Highness has awoken!_ "

Her heart leaped into her throat, and she glanced up at Fakir. He gave her a nod of encouragement and urged her forward with a gentle push at the small of her back.

With a deep breath, she called Uzura and Lamp to their side, and headed back toward the town walls with Fakir right behind her.

* * *

And as the sun sunk below the horizon and the nighttime overtook the day, quiet steps followed the shadows as they encroached upon the darkening streets of Vineta, their hoods obscuring their carefully-hidden features, their sights set on the towering majesty of the Grand Chateau.

One bandit ducked behind a bakery, now closed for the evening, and studied the pathways of the village carefully. This would be tricky, with that large lake encircling the castle this way.

She released a heavy breath, toying with the handle of the axe tucked beneath her robes.


	17. Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So," the prince said, his movements puppet-like as he dropped his sword, "all of my guests have arrived safely to my ball."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one! As always, any and all feedback is appreciated! Please let me know what you think! :D I'd really love to know your thoughts.
> 
> I love you all from the bottom of my heart. ;-; Thank you for encouraging me and helping me improve!

There was a time, long ago, when Rue believed the world to be simpler—when she was but a child, begging Raven to lift her up into his arms and swing her around so she could touch the sky, or sitting before the hearth as Edel told stories from her old, wicker chair. There were days when she would dismiss little Freya's oddities (speaking to flowers and expecting a reply, how curious!), or play with Fakir's little tin soldiers without his permission (he was always so possessive of things that belonged to him!). She would dance to make Malen draw her pretty pictures, or to weasel out of laundry duty.

Come to think of it, Rue was a little nightmare when she was young. The only one she listened to was Raven. Always Raven. Steadfast, reliable Raven, who'd been there for her when no one else was. Like the father she never knew.

She missed that. She missed so many things. The sunlight kissing her eyelids as she awoke, and the scent of breakfast rolls tempting her out of bed.

_You can't go back_ , she thought to herself, her body and spirit numb as she watched the villagers prepare for departure, _You can never go back._

Even if the curse was lifted, she'd been robbed of what she could never regain.

Raven turned to look at her from a small distance away, eyes uncaring. He cleared his throat and stood before the silent crowd, the flicker of the nearby lamppost casting shadows under his eyes. They waited for his next order with cold, calculated patience.

Rue suddenly wished she knew how to turn her power off.

She often wondered if it would've all been easier had she attempted to dance for Ahiru and sway the girl's heart from the very beginning. But they already planned to steal her life away—Edel wouldn't want them to steal her free thought and dignity as well. The rest of the village readily agreed. It _would've_ been easier, but certainly not right.

...Whatever 'right' might've been.

She turned away from the crowds and retreated to the isolation of her stone hut, letting the heavy, ratty cloth of her doorway bar her view of the village square.

Rue didn't know how much time passed—only that it did, as the light of her lantern eventually dimmed, and then vanished, and she was left staring blankly at her darkened walls.

She heard a rustle, and then footsteps.

"... Rue?"

Scowling in the shadows, she turned away from the doorway, making a show of pointedly ignoring Autor's pitiful call.

"Rue, I'm sor—" He sighed. "... They left."

Of course they left. She sneered into the emptiness.

"About the things I said before—you're right. Rue, I'm—"

"That's enough."

He took a sharp breath. "I know I've made mistakes! You don't have to be cruel, do you? I ... No, you ... you _should_ be cruel, I guess.

"Three hundred years is a long time to do nothing. Maybe it was the curse. Or maybe it was just us. I don't know anymore."

She quickly grew tired of his self-pity (she had enough of it on her own). This was exactly what Autor wanted, what he asked for, what he caused. And there was no getting rid of him.

And it was then that she realized she simply didn't want to be here anymore.

Waiting, wondering, wishing …

Ahiru's restlessness during her imprisonment made much more sense now. Rue could've laughed. Waiting, wondering, and wishing here, with Autor, was the last thing she wanted. It wouldn't make Raven forgive her, and it certainly wouldn't make her feel better at all.

Her eyes landed on the old, little drum on her desk and her hand curled into a fist.

"Autor," she uttered into the darkness, feigning sad curiosity and lightening her tone, "tell me about that place. That place where Fakir took them."

"Rue?"

"I just want to hear about this beautiful kingdom on the surface. I never got to see the vision on your parchment before Elder took it with him."

Her cot shifted as Autor sunk down and sat beside her prone form, and she fought the urge to shove him away. "The vision was lovely, Rue. With a castle taller than a dragon, and a village full of people—just like how it used to be. We could have that again, you know."

_Not if we destroy it_ , she thought. Instead, she continued to lead the conversation. It was a special kind of manipulation, the sort far more difficult to maneuver than simply dancing to sway him. But she was so, so _tired_ of dancing, and this rather soothed the bitterness and spite she held against him. "Where is it? Is it far?"

"Only a day's flight away to the south. They'll be back soon."

"I see. It sounds warm and wonderful there." Sitting up, she reached for his hand. "I think it will be alright now. Thank you. I'm glad you're here."

"Rue!" Autor clutched her hand readily, and she couldn't meet his hopeful gaze. "Of … of course! I'd never leave you!"

"I'd like to be alone, just for a few minutes, if that's alright. Would you …" Peeking up at him from beneath thick lashes and lowering her eyelids, she pulled her hand from his. "... Would you wait for me down below in the flower fields? I think after I compose myself, I'd like to stay with you for a while."

He leaped to his feet, energized and pathetic. "Yes! Yes, I'll be there! Take your time."

Pitiful man. He left with a semblance of a bounce in his step.

And now, he couldn't stop her. The tiny bit of remorse she felt for what she'd done to him was just another scratch on her battered heart—it couldn't compare to everything else.

This wouldn't earn her Raven's forgiveness. Or Ahiru's, for that matter. But she wouldn't simply just stay here and wait with Autor. Out of the question.

Her next move would have to be a cautious one. Avoid being caught by those left behind, and keep a safe distance from those who'd already left.

She took up her cloak and threw the strap of that small drum over her shoulder.

* * *

Ahiru bit her lip, poking at the glob of jelly that sat in the middle of her slice of toast with a fork. And across from her was her prince, beautiful and silent.

They sat in one of the smaller drawing rooms for breakfast, as the busy castle staff occupied the main ballroom and banquet hall for the preparations of the ball later this evening. While Ahiru thought the cozy confines of the smaller chamber more inviting than the cold, sprawling dining area, being here with Mytho felt … wrong.

Even worse now, in fact.

"Um … Mytho? How's your tea?"

"I don't know."

Ahiru winced, instinctively looking toward Mr. Katz who stood by the window across the room. His expression reflected her own, downcast and hesitant, his fingertips brushing through his whiskers.

Mytho had been like this since waking up the night before. They found him wandering aimlessly through the halls, his stare vacant and his pale hands curiously stained with ashes. She feared his awakening somewhat, expecting those cold eyes and chilling advances, but she was at least prepared to face him that way.

She didn't know if this was an improvement, or something worse.

"Oh … Okay. Do you want any jam for your toast?"

"I don't know."

Once again, the room fell into silence, and she found herself wishing Fakir was here. Inexplicably, she felt a little more capable when he was nearby.

She hadn't seen him since last night, right before she helped Raetsel and Mr. Katz tuck the vacant Mytho into bed. "Don't worry about Uzura or Lamp. I got them," he said, "He needs you right now."

Fakir was right. Mytho did need her right now. But what could she _do_?

Once again, she looked to Mr. Katz, remembering his words. " _What is more convenient than not doing anything?"_

She tried again. "So, tonight's the night! I'm really exci—I'm very much looking forward to the ball. Everyone's been so busy, but Raetsel and everyone have done such an amazing job, don't you think?"

His reply was a detached, haunting query. "Do I?"

Her fingers curled anxiously into her satin skirt. Mr. Katz attempted to cancel the celebration entirely, but it seemed to be the _only_ decisive opinion Mytho had right now. Through Mytho's indifference, he gripped Mr. Katz's sleeve and fervently ordered that the ball continue. "It would be a tragedy," Mytho whispered, his eyes hardening into swirling gold for just a brief moment, "if it were to be canceled."

It chilled them all to the core, but he was still Prince Siegfried of Vineta, and the other advisors carried on as planned with the festivities.

So, there they sat, a coffee table between them, Mytho's food untouched, awaiting the staff to retrieve them for their preparations. Mr. Katz conceded regretfully, but with the hope that being surrounded by his friends and his adoring subjects would better his state.

Months ago, the idea of a royal ball enraptured her. Now, she could only dread it.

She bit back a sniffle and stood, circling around the table to sit beside her prince. Taking his cold hand within her own, she let her head fall to rest against his shoulder. He didn't move. He merely accepted.

* * *

Something was wrong.

As soon as Fakir left Ahiru's presence the night before, he felt something was amiss. Something changed. And for the life of him, he couldn't quite place it. It gnawed at him from the back of his mind. His nerves were on fire. His palms itched.

It wasn't until he decided to call it a night and put away his writing materials that he realized it.

His stories were gone.

They were _right there_ —a neat stack of pages on the upper right corner of the desk. He scrambled down to tip the wastebasket over, rifling through rejected drafts and discarded notes. He threw his bedsheets to the ground, emptied the drawers and the armoire, and in his frenzied search, he even knocked over the trolley of pastries that Miss Raetsel brought to his room earlier, sending baked goods and dishes clattering messily to the ground.

Nothing. _Nothing_.

Karon was quick to assure him that no one but Raetsel entered his room as far as he knew, and she insisted that she knew nothing of the whereabouts of his story. And with the growing threats on the horizon along with Prince Siegfried's strange awakening, Fakir knew they all had their fair share of anxieties.

Another sleepless night.

He buried his face in his hands, sitting at the desk surrounded by the disarray. His fingers throbbed from rapid quill-strokes of the hours he spent sloppily writing a replacement.

The words blurred together—a rushed ramble of desperate drivel, a story that did little justice to the epic adventure he and Ahiru imagined: of a writer, a duchess, a child without her drum, led by the light of a lady bug, deep in the mysterious mountain caves awaiting the day of the raven constellation's alignment beneath crystalline stalactites. A wonderful idea, crumbling into minced words and lackluster imagery. And perhaps, all too late.

Had he failed again? Was this enough?

Fakir started at the tiny knock on his door, and he would've barked at whoever it was to leave him alone if not for the childlike voice that greeted him. "Fakir-zura! Fakir-zura! I wanna come in-zura!"

His heart softened and he tried to wipe the exhaustion and harshness from his eyes. He took a composing breath. "... It's open, Uzura."

Without hesitation, she burst right in with Lamp zipping around the crown of her head and twirled. "Look, Fakir-zura!"

In spite of everything, Fakir smiled, the anxious clench in his lungs loosening at the sight of her. Dainty in satin layers decorated with handsewn rosettes and a pretty headband nestled in her mint-green hair, Uzura looked like a little princess. She bounced eagerly in a cloud of fine fabric, her buckled slippers clicking on the ground.

Even Lamp, who would likely remain largely hidden for the duration of the ball to avoid inquiries from the guests, dressed in soft lace and pale yellow—a small doll's handcrafted clothing.

At least someone was having fun.

Fakir reached out to take Uzura's chubby hand to lead her into another twirl, stifling his worries for her sake. "You look very nice. But I want you to be careful at the party. Stay close to Miss Raetsel."

"Ohhhhh!" She pouted up at him, her cheeks puffing. "But my friends are invited-zura! And are you sure you're not coming, too-zura?"

"No. I'll be staying here." He swallowed. Leaving his room at a time like this was out of the question, especially when all he was missing was some glorified party, stuffy royals, and Ahiru dancing with a dead-eyed, Drosselmeyer-corrupted prince.

… If Fakir was presented with that, he didn't know what he'd do. Just the thought of it had his chest burning. He would have to rely on Karon, Raetsel, and Mr. Katz to protect her.

And he hated that. He hated that he could only be useful here at his desk.

Uzura's pout grew more severe. "But there's gonna be dancing and Ducky is coming-zura! And lots of food-zura! A big party like we had a lot at home-zura!"

" _No_ ," he repeated with a stern frown, forbidding himself from reminiscing over the old festivals and celebrations in the town square of Wyvern, "I'm not going, Uzura. Lamp and Miss Raetsel will keep you company."

"Faki—!"

" _Enough_."

She stomped her foot petulantly and bolted out of the room, leaving a disheartened and flickering Lamp behind. The lady bug gave Fakir a sad glance.

"Don't look at me like that." He sat back in his chair, running a hand through his disheveled bangs. "I have important things to do. Uzura will have a good time either way."

Lamp floated dismally down to sit on the edge of his table, her hands on her knees. He tried not to look at her and focused on his mess of a draft instead.

A few minutes later, Uzura came right back, noisily bounding into the room with the door swinging open behind her. "See-zura?! Ducky is coming to the ball, too-zura!"

Fakir looked up just in time to see the squawking duchess stumbling in after the child, her voluminous skirt dragged by Uzura's stubborn grip. " _QUA_ —! Uzura, when did you get so strong—WAH?!"

Before Ahiru could tumble forward, Fakir jumped to his feet and grabbed her arms to steady her. "Watch your step!" he scolded her as he helped her right herself.

Then, he pulled away when he took her in, a lump lodging painfully in his throat.

It wasn't as if he'd never seen her in those formal piles of fluff before. In fact, she'd been dressed as such when they first met, ruffle and frill in all directions.

The gown she wore now was surprisingly subdued in comparison, with a pale, blue hue that livened her eyes and a simple silhouette that framed her just so—enough to leave him breathless. The lace, filmy sleeves flowed down to her wrists, and her skirts tumbled like a waterfall from her waist in varying waves of sheer fabric over white satin beneath. Resting between her unpowdered, freckled shoulders was that red pendant, glimmering in Lamp's light—a jewel that used to remind him of past tragedies and trauma and heartache, but … still did nothing to mar her now.

And it only worsened when he finally found the courage to look her in the eye. Glossed lips, freckles dusted across her upturned nose, sweet, blue irises blinking up at him from beneath long lashes and tendrils of orange locks that escaped the elegant twist into which her hair was pulled ...

She was lovely and simple and so undeniably _her_ , especially as she twiddled her thumbs under his gaze. So he looked away, ashamed.

She shuffled awkwardly, her dress swishing. "Don't be mean! I can't help it! I'm not used to clothes like this anymore. Do you think it's going to be a problem …? I'm gonna be in this for a few hours. I remember that the parties my parents held were kind of an all-night thing. Maybe I should've told someone this is too long!"

He still couldn't bring himself to look at her. "At least you can breathe," he half-joked, shoving his shaking hands in his pockets.

"Mm! I had it made a little loose!"

"Good. Then, you'll be fine."

Uzura tugged on Ahiru's dress and whined, her pout still as fierce as ever. "Fakir says he's not coming-zura!"

"Eh? Is that why you were really mad?" Ahiru rocked back and forth on her heels, glancing up to him. "I guess you're still busy, huh, Fakir? I was sort of hoping you'd change your mind about coming along. The staff worked pretty hard today, and Mytho's—" She trailed off, her shoulders slumping. "I think Mytho could … use more company than just me. Nothing I do seems to help him at all."

Fakir glanced over his shoulder at the draft on his desk, Lamp illuminating the messily scrawled words.

He knew he needed to tell Ahiru about his missing story. He needed to tell her about the hours he spent last night, fervently writing in the hopes that the manuscript's disappearance hadn't affected his ability to keep their location hidden from Raven and Autor.

But tonight … was her night. It could wait until morning, though time was, as always, running short.

He didn't want the reminder that they were running out of mornings altogether.

Fighting with himself, Fakir lifted his gaze to look at her again, shaking his head with as much confidence as he could muster. "That's not true. He'll see you tonight, and then everything will be fine. Have faith in yourself."

"You really think so?"

Of course he thought so. The sight of her could heal any broken, battered, blackened heart. Even his own. "Yeah."

"So Fakir's really not gonna come with us-zura?" Uzura asked, her eyes rippling.

Ahiru nodded, patting her head. "It's okay! We'll have another party in the future, and Fakir can have fun with us then, okay?" She smiled brightly up at him then, picking up her skirt so she could walk with little trouble. "Don't forget to have faith in yourself, too, Fakir!"

As she and Uzura swept out the door, Lamp nudged his shoulder, staring at him expectantly. But before he could say another word, they were already far down the hall.

"Don't look at me like that," he repeated to Lamp, slumping down into his chair to get back to work. She gave a twinkle-like sigh and followed after them, leaving him to his thoughts.

He knew what Lamp meant. But, telling Ahiru how beautiful she was …?

… What good would that do?

Fakir scowled down at his pages and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

The woman tucked her short hair behind her ear, feeling exposed in the sunlight. She took her husband's hand and watched with guarded fascination as the town herald announced that the doors of the Grand Chateau would open to those wishing to attend some ball or another. Even now, officials and royals from neighboring towns arrived in lavish caravans led by horses, Pegasi, swans, bearing seals and crests.

The townspeople, the sweet things, were bursting with anticipation. To be able to associate openly with those of considerably higher rank excited them, no doubt. They prattled on about a queen-to-be, an uplifting celebration in the midst of a great war effort, their handsome prince, the rumors of a strange creature allegedly hidden within the Chateau's walls ...

Knights patrolled diligently, despite a great portion of them off on some campaign she knew nothing about. But the doors were still open to the general public, and that, in itself, posed a vital opportunity.

An opportunity the Bookmen knew that they would have to take.

"Just one of us would be enough," her husband whispered, "I'll go."

"No." She shook her head, despite the fear in her heart. "Not you. Let me." They were the only ones that could, but as afraid as she was, she was far more terrified of losing him.

And he understood.

With a nod, her husband placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she turned her gaze to the sprawling towers of the Grand Chateau.

* * *

Pique and Lilie did nothing to assuage Ahiru's nerves.

"Oh gosh, milady, there are so many people coming in and they look _gorgeous_!"

"Milady, oh you must be so terrified~! You have to impress _all_ of them~! I do hope you do not embarrass yourself and do irreparable damage to His Highness's reputation~!"

"Milady, are you ready? This is so exciting—but super scary!"

They latched onto her arms, one in pale purple and the other in soft pink. Miss Raetsel released them from staff duties knowing that Ahiru would appreciate their support, and they were all too happy to dress their best for the evening and give her all the encouragement they could manage.

Evidently, it wasn't much.

"We'll have to go on in without you since you have to do your whole introduction and all. Everyone's gonna look at you so stay poised, okay? We'll see you out there!"

"Try not to sully your own night with your clumsy antics, milady~!"

Before Ahiru could get a word in, they floated off, swishing their skirts playfully down the hall as they made their way toward the ballroom. They left her fidgeting and skittish outside of her chambers, her fingers toying with the hems of her sleeves.

She felt stupid, worrying about impressing everyone when Fakir was working hard and Mytho was in trouble.

Truth be told, she was disappointed Fakir wasn't coming to the ball. She couldn't place why—only that his absence fell heavy on her shoulders. Instead, she would have to cling to his words of encouragement, and face Mytho and the crowds with as much courage as she could garner from the strength he left to her.

Minutes passed as she waited for her escort. Soon enough, Karon, dignified in all his finery, approached her and bowed. "Lady Ahiru, you look lovely this evening."

"Ah! Um—I mean, thank you very much!" She gave her best, practiced curtsy in return. As she slipped her hand into the curl of his arm, she caught the subtle slump of his poise and his bloodshot eyes. "Karon? Are you …?"

He patted her hand affectionately, masking his tiredness with a crinkling smile. "Now, now. Just do your best and enjoy your night. His Highness will be pleased to see you, I'm certain."

At the finality in his words, they walked the rest of the way in silence, Ahiru keeping her eyes trained on the intricate swan designs of the carpet. She only looked up when the carpet ended and became polished marble tile as they approached the entrance to the ballroom. Already, Ahiru could hear the muffled strings of music and the hum of a crowd from behind the doors.

Her heart hammered in her chest as she approached Mytho, who waited for her beside Mr. Katz. Mr. Katz looked ever-so-polished in his lavender coat, his shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back.

Mytho …

She blushed. Mytho always did look handsome. Dressed in deep blue with gold filigree, his tunic boasted his inherent grace, a cape sweeping from his back and over one shoulder. A sash decorated his chest with ribbons and crests, and a feathered collar accentuated his swanlike neck. He was fair, and beautiful, and Ahiru felt woefully inadequate beside him.

But his eyes were still empty, and her heart sank when she realized that nothing changed.

Mr. Katz stepped forward to greet her with a polite bow and and kiss to her knuckles, and urged her with a gentle smile to take Mytho's arm.

Without a word or a second glance, Mytho allowed it, keeping his emotionless eyes straight ahead.

Karon and Mr. Katz took it upon themselves to enter first and formally announce their prince and his future bride, leaving the two in cold silence. Ahiru glanced up from her position by the prince's side, her hand quivering around his arm. "Mytho?" she whispered, her voice wavering, "Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Can I—is there anything I can do to make you feel better at all?"

"I don't know."

"Oh." Her eyes stung, but she blinked hard to keep the tears at bay.

Then, the doors opened.

It was a scene pulled from the pages of a fairytale—something Fakir could've written. She, a queen-to-be, on the arm of her perfect prince, stepped onto the elevated stairway that overlooked the white dome that was this grand ballroom. An intricate chandelier hung suspended in crystal tiers in the center of the elegant, molded ceiling as smaller versions adorned the edges of the walls. Windows and doors that led out to the outdoor balcony lined the far side, allowing the pleasing nighttime and the twinkle of stars and moonlight to intermingle with the happy brightness of the ball.

And the people— _so many_ —in all forms of colors and ribbons and tunics, awaited with smiles and bated breaths, their gowns shining and billowing like bells, their gems and crests twinkling in the brilliance of this spectacle.

The music began, a fine, well-dressed band situated on the eastern side of the ballroom, and celebratory strings wove seamlessly with the polite, awed applause from the guests beneath.

"Bow," Mr. Katz whispered subtly from somewhere behind them.

Immediately, Mytho did so, and Ahiru followed with a hesitant curtsy, her face red.

Once upon a time, this was everything she dreamed of: to feel like a princess, at her prince's side—

_But this wasn't Mytho._

—in this grand ballroom—

_Even bigger than Wyvern's town square._

—with the joyous music playing—

_Autor's piano was missing some keys, wasn't it?_

—and the beautiful people falling into a carefully-practiced waltz.

_What would Rue look like, dressed in fine silk?_

"Go forward," came Mr. Katz gentle instruction.

Biting back an anxious sob, Ahiru forced a smile and made a careful step down the stairs, leading Mytho down with her. Even in his state, his elegance persisted (it must've come so naturally to him), and she was grateful she could lean on him somewhat for balance.

Then came the greetings, a blur of faces and polite introductions with Karon and Mr. Katz's assistance. Ahiru didn't even have a mind to keep track of her own behavior, shaken as she was. So many names, titles, questions—they dizzied and flustered her, and she wondered how many mechanical, awkward curtsies she messed up, or the amount of peculiar eyebrow-raises she'd earned. Even Mytho, emotionless, vacant Mytho, fared better than she under Mr. Katz's quiet instructions.

Her hand wandered up to her pendant and she clung like a lifeline.

Her mother was once a natural at all of this. She remembered watching from behind her large gowns, peeking out and blinking childishly at the visitors. Back then, it was acceptable to have some lack of manners, as she was so little.

Now, she had no such excuse. And she _floundered_.

Until, finally, she recognized someone.

"Good evening, cousin!" greeted the new Duke of Hedeby, his smile warm with familiarity, "There are no words to express how grateful I am for your safe return."

Her chest flooded with relief. "Cousin Mal! Thank you so, so much for coming! It's been a really long time!"

He chuckled. "Only a month or two."

… It felt like much longer than that.

"But, my, you've changed," he marveled, stroking his chin and raising an eyebrow, "Though, you ought to straighten up, cousin. The guests have been whispering, you know."

Suddenly self-conscious, she did so, squaring her shoulders and lengthening her stance, awkward and stiff. She wanted to turn to Mr. Katz or Karon for help, but they had their hands full with assisting Mytho in appearing as natural as possible to their greeting guests. She was on her own, even before her own family.

"Ah, pardon me, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Nnn … No, it's oka—it's quite alright! I have to make a good impression!"

His smile returned. "Undoubtedly. But of course your adjustment is understandable. To think, not long ago, we were all prepared to mourn you as we did your parents. Your mother would be proud of your recovery." He paused, shaking his head. "What monstrous creature would do such a thing?"

Ahiru thought of Fakir with his calloused, ink-stained fingers, sitting all alone upstairs. "It's really not like that at all! I mean, it wasn't good what he did, but he isn't monstrous!"

A hush fell over a group of people meandering nearby, and they blinked curiously over their wine glasses at Ahiru's peculiar outburst. She pursed her lips in embarrassment and looked away from her cousin's stunned expression.

"I … I see. Well, I do hope to catch up with you soon. I'm afraid I've been holding up the line!" he said with a laugh, gesturing at the growing crowd behind him, "Good luck. Perhaps we shall share a dance at your leisure!"

"Oka—Alright! Yes! Um, enjoy the ball!"

And then, he was gone, leaving her to the strangers once more, beside the prince who couldn't so much as smile at her.

In such a crowd as this, she'd never felt more alone.

* * *

"Ohhhhhh!"

Uzura rocked back and forth on her heels, Lamp tucked safely in her pocket. She'd never seen so many people in such fluffy clothes, dancing and talking and eating. Pique and Lilie giggled in a corner with a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries between them (Uzura thought that chocolate was really delicious), Duck was busy with a bunch of people she didn't know at all, and Miss Raetsel was nowhere to be found. It would be a lot better if Lamp could come out and play, but they all said she wasn't allowed to. "There are no such things as lady bugs," they said. Uzura thought that was silly, but this place had a lot of rules.

She couldn't even play with Fakir, and her drum was all the way back at home. She wondered when she'd be able to go back and get it.

Miss Raetsel said that the friends she made in town would be able to come, but they weren't here yet, or their parents didn't let them. So, she scampered around pillars and beneath food tables instead, cooing at all the colors and bright lights.

She decided that the big chandelier in the center was her absolute favorite. It would be nice if she could show everyone at home. Maybe home would be a little brighter with one of those.

There was one guest, one who stayed in the dark, behind pillars and hanging white drapes, who had a dress that wasn't so shiny, but Uzura rather liked it. It was simple, like what everyone would wear at home. And it looked like the woman wearing it didn't really want to be there. She had a frown on her face, and kept holding her bag very close. When the woman pulled a hood over her head and slipped away and out of sight, Uzura blinked once, then twice.

Maybe this lady was waiting for her friends, too!

* * *

Fakir heard the festivities from down below. He wanted to blame the ball for his lack of concentration, but in reality, he needed no such distraction. There was nothing else _to_ do, but wait, and hope.

He stood, facing his open window as the moonlight streamed in from beyond the filmy curtains. He pushed them back and sat on the sill, massaging his aching hand, listening to the sounds of the orchestra echoing into the vastness of the cool night air. He could only hope Ahiru was enjoying this one evening of happiness. That was the least she deserved.

Once again, a knock on his door interrupted his reverie, and he was mildly surprised that anyone in the Chateau _wasn't_ occupied with the massive party downstairs. "Yeah?"

Raetsel poked her head in and smiled, proceeding to wheel in a tray—lavish, fancy, over-seasoned meat garnished with superfluous vegetation. Likely what they served at the party. He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't have to bring up anything. I'm fine."

"Nonsense. I make sure everyone in this castle is living well, even you." She smiled. "And Miss Ebine wouldn't have it if just _one_ person here didn't try her cooking this evening. She's outdone herself. And even Karon. He wanted to make sure you were fed, as you've declined the invitation to the ball."

Fakir shifted uncomfortably. "Thanks. To them, too."

"Hoh!" Raetsel straightened, pushing her long, dark locks over one shoulder. She let her hair flow loose for the evening, pinned on one side by a flower comb. Her gown accentuated her feminine figure and he felt rather awkward being the one to pull her away from the ball in the name of her duty. "Let them know yourself, hm?"

"Alright."

"If you get too lonely up here, you're always welcome to join us. Even for a little while." She took a breath, bringing a finger to her lips in thought. "Curse or not, you're only human at heart, you know. I feel like we're always telling you to take breaks.

"You and Lady Ahiru are His Highness's only hope. That's quite a lot to take on for you both. I promise, after tonight ends, you two will have the full support of Vineta. Whatever you need to help our prince."

She left him with a smile and a curtsy, and he bowed his head as she closed the door after her.

Attending the ball was out of the question, but …

He sighed and picked up his knife and fork. Maybe a quick walk would do some good after a meal. And then, well …

Fakir glanced up out the window, his green eyes darkening at the forming shape in the stars.

* * *

Now that they were through with the formal greetings, it felt like no one wanted to talk to her at all.

Ahiru wanted nothing more than to find Pique, Lilie, and Uzura somewhere in the crowd, but she remained rooted in her spot beside Mytho. She couldn't leave him. Not like this.

The heavy disappointment in her gut only grew heavier. Everyone kept telling her that seeing her tonight would open Mytho's eyes and wake his heart, but that was silly, wasn't it? Why would that help? She wore a new dress and her hair was different, but she was still the same, dumb duchess she always was. In fact, tonight only amplified that a thousand times over.

Her hand trembled as she took hold of Mytho's arm. "Um, hello, Mytho! Did you, um, did you enjoy seeing your friends?"

"Friends?" He turned to her, vacant eyes empty, his tone stagnant.

And around her came the hushed whispers of the guests, nobility and townspeople alike.

"My, he doesn't seem very happy with his fiancee."

"He's changed since she came."

"What has she done to him?"

"Does she look like queen material to you?"

"She's sweet enough, but that can only get her so far."

"The poor dear, I don't think she can handle any of this."

Ahiru wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

She almost jumped when a friendly hand came to rest on her shoulder, Mr. Katz giving her a weak smile and a nod. "It's alright, my lady."

Karon gestured to the conductor, and the music erupted into a glorious waltz within moments, lightening the atmosphere in but a wave of his baton. Then, Mr. Katz gently pushed her in Mytho's direction, nodding again.

Her cheeks flooded with heat, but she understood. And for Mytho, she would always, always try her best.

"Mytho? Would you like to dance?" she asked, timid, but hopeful. His lips parted, and somehow, she knew he would answer with his usual, "I don't know." Before he could do so, Ahiru swallowed and spoke again, louder and with growing worry. "Please? Um, come dance with me?"

He merely allowed it, and together, they strode out to the center of the ballroom among other dancing couples, and Ahiru knew that, like Pique said earlier, all eyes were on them. She learned the waltz before, but could never reach the level of proficiency her mother had. And with her nerves fraying at the ends and her prince in this state, she could only pray that this wouldn't be a complete disaster.

She tried to smile at him, but he didn't smile back.

He moved with elegance, and she tried her best to fall into step with him, worrying all too much that her palms dampened and she was half a beat behind. She once daydreamed of this—of the day Prince Siegfried would sweep her into a lovely dance as her husband, and they would circle the floor with enthusiastic glee. She would be so happy, and their dance would be so perfect, that her feet wouldn't even touch the ground.

Mytho mutely guided her, and this felt nothing like her childhood fairytales. Even as a handsome prince led her across the dancefloor, she only wanted to cry. And it was her fault he was like this. It was her fault that people gossiped about him, that the staff feared and worried for him, that she pushed him into this awful situation. It was her fault that he wasn't himself anymore.

Could she truly do nothing to help him?

And as her eyes rippled with unshed tears and her bottom lip trembled, Mytho's empty eyes began to swirl and narrow, and the barest hint of a smirk crossed his lips.

They were his words. But they weren't.

"Poor little duckling. Perhaps you were more useful as a sacrifice after all?"

Her blood ran cold.

The waltz drew to a soft close, the surrounding guests politely clapping as the conductor bowed graciously. And Mytho, his eyes wiped clean of that hazy dreadfulness, mutely bowed as Mr. Katz had been instructing him all evening.

She couldn't bring herself to curtsy back. "M … Mytho?" Her voice cracked. "Why—?"

"Why what?" he murmured back, expressionless and blank.

The crowd around her moved in a blur in preparation for the next dance, but she felt cold, lonely, and could no longer fight back the swell of sobs in her chest. She only wanted to be away from prying eyes. Just for a moment. She didn't want everyone to see how useless, shameful, and stupid she was.

Stumbling back to the edges of the ballroom as discreetly as she could manage, she blinked through the misty tears, her hand sliding along the wall until she felt glass. Frantically, she grabbed for the doorknob, and stumbled out into the cool air of the balcony before anyone spotted her departure.

Here, it was cool. Empty. With only the moon and stars as company, the music from inside a soft hum.

And as soon as she was able, she shuffled forward, collapsed onto the stone balustrade, and let go in loud, ugly sobs.

This was … such a _wretched_ feeling. What, did she think a _dance_ would help? That Mytho would feel at all better with her around? Anything she did for him only made things worse, and even _before_ her kidnapping, did she really think she could make him happy?

… And even then, there she was, crying over her stupid insecurities, when just a little over a week remained before—!

Her blubbering only sounded more pathetic now, muffled messily into her sleeves.

Why did it always feel like she took two steps back with every single step forward? How could she be so hopeful and so determined, but break down so easily the next night? She wanted to do something, she wanted to help, but all she ever did was fail.

What would her mother think of her? If Mytho was himself, would he despise her? What would Fakir say?

"Ahiru?"

She hiccupped, not hearing him at first.

"Hey, are you—?!"

Her eyes snapped open and she looked over the edge of the balustrade, her sobs catching in her throat as she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve.

In the gardens below, Fakir stood, still in the clothes he wore earlier, staring up at her slumped form on the balcony. His confused stare softened and saddened, illuminated by moonlight. "Hey—"

But seeing him …

… She didn't realize until now that she really _wanted_ to see him. She didn't realize until now that he would've made everything better from the beginning.

She ached to tell him everything, and she was utterly unwilling to hide how she felt from him anyway. And yet, she failed to verbalize it, crumbling back into inaudible weeping. "Fa—Fak _ir_ , I—Ic-couldn'tdoany—!"

"... Hang on," she heard him say. He approached the side of the balcony where vines crawled up the side of the garden wall. There was a rustle of leaves and small grunts as he climbed his way up. He hefted himself up and over the balustrade and onto the landing. "Ahiru."

She struggled to stand, but could only bring herself to sit on the stone.

"What happened?" His voice was closer now, and she felt the warmth of him as he knelt beside her.

Still, she couldn't form an answer. Instead, he sat with her until her sobs finally subsided, leaving messy hiccups and soft sniffles in their wake.

"I-I still c-couldn't do anything for— _hic_!—Mytho … I think I-I made it _worse_ somehow and he said some things that weren't him and n-nothing I did was— _hic_ —Fakir I'm really _scared_ and even if I keep trying to do things for him and for everyone in Wyve— _hic_ —vern, I _can't_! And I thought I was going to help, I was so sure I could, but I keep going back and forth and I'm so sorry I'm like this I—!"

He didn't reply for a long while, the sounds of her harsh breaths mingling with the hushed tones of the music inside. But when his hand curled into hers and he stood, encouraging her to rise with him, she allowed it and melted into his hold, her forehead against his chest.

Her hand in his ...

He didn't lead her into a waltz—barely even a dance, really. A light sway with the soft piano and violins in the distance, her hand in his, his arm resting gently around her waist …

Here, in his arms, she didn't feel ashamed of how she felt.

"Even though you're scared," he said, his chest rumbling with his voice (she felt his heartbeat, quick and heavy, against her cheek), "you're stronger than you know."

Slowly, gently, she felt the tension ease from her muscles. "You … think so?"

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it, idiot."

"Don't call me that." Still, she smiled, watery and puffy, but still a smile. "Eh? I … I'm making your shirt wet …"

"I've had worse."

"Okay."

They fell into silence, contentedly together, and he made no move to pull away until her cries subsided completely, patient and strong. He was warm, and her chest swelled with— _something_. She didn't know what.

Her heart raced. Swallowing, she fought down her blush and spoke again. "So, what were you doing down there anyway?"

"Taking a walk. I needed a break."

"Mmn, you're doing everything you can, and here I am crying about—"

"You really need to stop downplaying your feelings."

He tightened his embrace around her, and she felt dizzy. Her chest burst with something so new, almost alarming behind her ribs, and she could hardly stand it. She released his hand, instead wrapping both her arms around him.

Downplaying her feelings?

Just what _was_ she feeling anymore? Wasn't she downright miserable just moments ago? Just seeing him, being near him, gave her a strength, and deep inside, she rather hoped he felt the same.

She needed to understand.

Worrying at her bottom lip, she glanced up, searching his glimmering green eyes for answers to questions she didn't know how to ask.

There was clarity in his gaze.

His mouth, a resigned, sad smile.

His expression, one he only wore when he looked at her.

"Ohhhhhh!"

They lurched away from one another, Ahiru placing her hands to her enflamed face. "U-Uzura?!"

"Fakir went to the ball-zura?"

"I _didn't_ —!" Fakir hid his face from view, not that Ahiru had the will to look him in the eye after—after whatever that _was_. "I wasn't going to—Uzura, I was just taking a walk, alright?!"

Lamp burst out from Uzura's pocket, her glow flickering anxiously. "Ohhhhh," Uzura cooed, pointing behind them into the shadows, "Yes, yes, there she is-zura!"

And the next moment flashed by, almost blinding as the moonlight reflected off a smooth, sharp surface right before her eyes.

" _Ahiru!_ "

Her breath left her lungs as Fakir's strong arms grabbed her around the waist, hurling her off to the side and down to the ground safely beneath him. The weapon swung past inches away, the wielder shielded beneath a dark hood.

"Uzura, get help!" he barked, leaping to his feet and keeping himself between Ahiru and her assailant. As the little girl scrambled back inside, Ahiru stumbled to her feet and peeked around Fakir's shoulder. A hooded face, an axe, almost too big for even the wielder—! She gripped his arm.

"Who are you?!"

The woman cursed inaudibly under her breath, her grip on the weapon quivering somewhat as the doors to the ballroom burst open, knights pouring out with swords drawn.

And then, along the starry horizon, just as the knights reached out to apprehend the hooded figure, a chilling echo spread out across the expansive plains, reaching their ears from beyond the town, across the lake, to the balcony of the ballroom tower.

Roars. And fire. And the heavy beat of dark wings.

The shine of moonlight glinting off scales was visible even from the swiftly closing distance—countless monsters, long-necked, with vicious roars and streams of blazing flames escaping their snouts, crowded together in fierce flight like a foreboding storm.

_Dragons_. Dragons in the distance steadily grew larger on the horizon, their petrifying calls waking people from their homes and drawing the crowd of the partygoers to the glass windows.

How …?

_How_ …?

Ahiru felt cold, seeping numbness as she gripped tighter to Fakir's sleeve, horrified.

The hooded woman, with a desperate cry, attempted to use the distraction to her advantage. She reeled back with a heave, the axe high and sharp and heavy above Fakir.

And then, a deflection, a clang of metal—Prince Siegfried, still vacant and expressionless, brought his sword before them all, taking his position in front of Fakir with a swiftness none knew he still possessed.

Shocked, the woman dropped her axe and the knights wasted no more time in apprehending her. The crowds screamed, some cried, and in the midst of it all, perhaps Karon, Mr. Katz, and General Lysander attempted to keep order in the increasing chaos.

But Fakir and Ahiru were frozen in all of it, the dragons in the distance ever-nearing, and Mytho's empty eyes clouding.

"So," the prince said, his movements puppet-like as he dropped his sword, " _all_ of my guests have arrived safely to my ball."

Mytho's knees buckled, and he collapsed, falling into a ready Mr. Katz's arms. "Take him to safety!" Mr. Katz commanded, his golden eyes distraught.

"Protect the village with all your might!" Lysander cried, "The trebuchets, the iron—!"

" _Wait_!"

Fakir gripped Ahiru's shoulders, and she could only cling to his vest. His voice wavered, but his eyes were fierce, and she felt so utterly helpless.

"We had an agreement! The dragons are _mine_ to deal with! You swore it!"

"But—!"

"Not till I die! _You swore!_ "

Karon stepped forward, calling out over the frenzy. "There are too many for you to—!"

Fakir shoved Ahiru forward into Karon's arms. "Take her and the prince, take Uzura—keep them safe!"

On instinct, she kept a firm grip on Fakir, her mind going a mile a minute. There was too much happening, all too quickly, and with so many voices, so many people, the cacophony of roars in the distance.

All she knew was that Mytho was unconscious, and Fakir wanted to face them. Alone.

She couldn't—the idea of it tore her to pieces.

"Fakir, Fakir, please, wait, wait, how did—you can't just—!"

Impatiently, he grit his teeth and tried to pull away from her stubborn hold. "It was my fault, alright?! I didn't tell you that my story was missing. I didn't tell you that I failed you. This is my fault, and we're running out of time! Go with them!"

She felt Karon's hands on her shoulders, drawing her away. "Are you certain?" he asked gravely.

"I'll hold them off as long as I can!"

"Fak _ir_!" This was too much. Too _much_! Twisting herself from Karon's hands, she grabbed onto him again, unable to think or see or feel anything else but the fact that he needed to stay safe. By her side. "W-What about Uzura?! There's too many of them! You can't do this, I—we're supposed to work _together!_ "

The look in his eyes changed just then, the anger dissipating and giving way to something unreadable, but palpable, and he froze her in her tracks just by his stare alone. He reached out, cupping her neck and holding her shoulder with protective strength, and despite the glow of coming flames and the clanking of knights and the muffled cries, he spoke clearly for her ears alone.

He spoke quickly, passionately, and deliberately.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you about the stories, Ahiru. I'm sorry I kidnapped you, that I dragged you into all of this. I'm sorry I kept forcing everything on you, the one person who deserves happiness more than anyone. And I'm sorry that in the end, I still failed.

"But I owe you everything. You've _changed_ everything, and you've changed _me_."

They winced as the roars grew louder.

"In these two months, I've felt more than I have in _three hundred years_ , Ahiru, and in that, you've already broken my curse. You freed me.

"This is all I can do for you now."

With one last, lingering look, and his thumb brushing her cheek, he released her into Karon's arms once more. She was forced to watch as he stepped onto the balustrade, and jumped.

He twisted, morphed, and roared mid-leap, large and savage, bursting into the air from the balcony in scales of obsidian, his yellow-green eyes angry and narrow. The townspeople and nobles all screamed at the sight, but Ahiru barely heard them.

Fakir flew off to meet his own kind, to catch them far from the defenseless village. She watched his dragon form grow smaller and smaller, further from her reach.

Numbly, she allowed the panicking Pique and Lilie—who cradled a crying Uzura in her arms—to lead her away from the sight, drawing her back into the safety of the ballroom. People rushed too and fro, taking main hallways and passageways to various secure areas of the Chateau. They carried Mytho in front of her, Mr. Katz and Karon flanking his prone form, Miss Raetsel and her best friends behind her, Uzura's wails echoing into her ears as they ducked into the servants' corridor.

This corridor …

She knew this hallway. She'd taken it once before, not too long ago. It led to the stables, and out to the town, and—

Though time was slow until now, it all came speeding back to her, and the feelings and desperation came with it.

Fakir … didn't tell her.

Didn't he always do this? He always wanted to make her choices for her.

He kidnapped her against her will.

He didn't even _ask_ if she wanted to come back here, either.

And he kept something so important from her, bearing it all on his own.

Now, he wanted to disappear to protect them all, forgetting that they were supposed to be a team. And he told her so many times that she was important, that she was enough, that she could do something for and with him—!

" _This is all I can do for you now."_

Didn't he realize that it had to go both ways?

For Mytho, for Fakir, for Fakir's family, for everyone …

… She wasn't going to let Fakir choose for her anymore!

Emboldened, she pushed past everyone in front of her, ignoring the calls of her name and wrenching herself from their grips. She dashed madly down the steps of the passage, kicking off her dainty slippers and lifting her gown. She poured every emotion, every hesitation, every worry into her feet to push her onward until her lungs burned and her muscles ached.

Breaching the doorway, the cool night air blessed her sweat-dotted forehead, the scent of fresh hay tickling her nose. The Pegasi had been taken already in preparation for battle, the chaos of the town a distant white noise.

The swans remained.

Not knowing what to do, but knowing she must do _something_ , she scrambled over to one of the swans, ignoring the pains in bare feet. It squawked and honked frantically at her when she tried to leap right onto its feathered back.

"Oh, please, please, please forgive me!" Without waiting, she jumped on, clinging around its neck and begging, "Please, please fly! My friend is in trouble, he needs me, and he's being a _jerk and not listening again_ and _GYAH_ —!"

The swan burst into clumsy fight, Ahiru's legs all but dangling from beneath its wings. She did her best to right herself, blinking against the harsh wind as the swan took to the starry sky in the flurry of feathers.

"Faster, please! Over there—!"

And in that enclosing distance, the dragons beset upon Fakir, fierce and overwhelming. She watched as he spat fire in every direction, one dragon biting into his shoulder, another grabbing for his wing …

There were so many. Too many.

And one—with chilling, blood-red eyes, a beak-like snout, and feathered wings—gave a mighty cry, crushing Fakir down into the earth with a mighty swing of its clawed hand.

Her heart stopped. She reached for her pendant, gripped it with white-knuckled desperation, and reached out into the fray.

A burst of white, and then, all went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Ahiru's cousin is named Mallard (because I think that's funny)


End file.
